


Mercy No More

by FoundInTheStars



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, BAMF Peter Quill, Dark, Dark!Quill, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Maybe - Freeform, POV Peter Quill, Peter Quill Feels, Peter Quill Needs a Hug, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Protective Peter Quill, Revenge, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Team Bonding, Team as Family, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vigilante Peter Quill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2021-03-26
Packaged: 2021-04-17 11:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 89,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21715897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoundInTheStars/pseuds/FoundInTheStars
Summary: “There are still a striking number of Thanos supporters in the galaxy,” Nebula says, her lip snarling. “I think we could do our part in reducing that number.”Peter can feel himself perk up at that. “So like… become vigilantes? Just me and you traveling around the galaxy killing supporters of Thanos?” He likes the way that sounds.Or, Peter succumbs to madness and vigilante-style tendencies following the events of Endgame.
Relationships: Gamora/Peter Quill
Comments: 114
Kudos: 153





	1. 100 Percent Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the idea of a dark!Peter and I just had to create this fic as a result. It was originally written as a oneshot, but after about 13,000 words (still currently ongoing) I've decided to make this a multi-chapter fic! Please enjoy!
> 
> As a precaution, this work will handle dark themes (I mean obviously, Peter's been through a lot) so please read with caution! Let me know if any trigger warnings need be added, although I don't think that will be a problem until maybe some of the later chapters.
> 
> Anyway, on with the story!

Peter can't breathe.

It’s almost as if his lungs are inflating with liquid fire, the tightness of the atmosphere suffocating him like a thick blanket. 

The only thing he can focus on is the all-consuming ache in his chest and, more notably, the fresh pain between his legs.

His feet pound against the dirt as he runs, sending shockwaves all the way up to his spinal cord. It’s dirt he hasn't stepped foot upon since the day Yondu took him from that field outside the hospital, the wet mud soaking into his jeans, surely leaving behind a grassy stain that would’ve made his mother cringe on laundry day.

He can't focus on that now, though. Not when his mind is reeling over about a million different things, each thought more complex and troubling than the last.

_ He just came back from the dead. _

_ He’s on Earth. _

_ Gamora is dead… alive… no, definitely dead. _

Peter runs down the slope and into the trench, ignoring the loud blasts and loose rocks thrown in his earshot. He looks over his left shoulder and notices the presence of a familiar face. 

“Stark,” Peter calls out. He goes over the names of the people he’s seen since he returned into existence and makes a mental list of who is still living. He doesn’t have the time to consider how morbid that sounds.

The next face he sees makes his aching chest pound even harder. His heart slams against his ribcage and throbs in his ears with every beat.

“Rocket,” he breaths out, quickening his pace and sliding down onto the floor next to the raccoon.

“Quill!” Rocket yells back, flashing a stupid grin that fills Peter with more hope than he has seen over the entire last few... days… weeks?

_ How long has he been dead, anyway? _

“Hey—Geez!” He shields some flying debris with his hand. “Hey, man!” Peter says.

“You're not dust!” Rocket looks at him incredulously, like he expects him to drift away with the wind in a matter of seconds. It takes all that Peter has not to recall the memory of how it felt when his body crumbled away, leaving piles of ashes in its wake.

Bile bubbles up in his throat, the ache in his chest spreading even further up and throughout his core.

“You all right?” Peter asks despite himself. 

He’s starting to become aware of the slight differences in Rocket’s appearance. Upon his face are a multitude of greyish-white hairs, making the raccoon appear matured in a way that only increases the sickness rising in Peter’s throat.

Around his neck is none other than Peter’s own scarf, hanging loosely as it drapes across his disheveled fur. Now that he’s paying attention, Rocket’s entire outfit is one he has never seen before, yet it is aged enough that the telltale signs of wear and tear are apparent.

_ How long has he been dead? _

Rocket nods and holds his fist out, his hand clenched and shaking slightly. Peter is overcome with emotion at the gesture, something inside telling him that no one is quite as okay as they claim. They bump fists anyway, and Peter sighs with something akin to relief. “My man.”

Just when his breath is coming back to him, it’s snatched away again, this time by the view of Nebula and…

_ Gamora? _

Is it really her? Is the person who just kicked him in the balls and scoffed at the idea of being with him romantically really the love of his life come back from the dead?

It isn't her, it can't be… because she is _ dead, _Nebula said so. Yet still, it is her in every aspect that he knows her, down to the precise shallowness of the scars on her cheekbones, the soft curls of her multi-colored hair cascading down her strong shoulders. 

But there are enough differences to back up what Nebula said to him, moments after he collapsed from the injury to his… intimate areas. Nebula mentioned something about this Gamora being from another time, from before any of them had met. He wouldn't have believed it, given the similarities of the woman he loves and her duplicate on the battlefield now. It’s the way she carries herself, distant and reserved, that proves Nebula’s claim.

This Gamora is not of their time.

“You wanna see something crazy?” Peter feels himself say, the words tumbling from his mouth without prior thought. He points over towards the two sisters, his hand trembling with the motion. “Look at that.” 

He can barely get the words out. 

“I thought Gamora was dead,” Rocket says, his voice strangely dejected and soft. If Peter didn’t know any better, he’d say it almost sounds like Rocket is treading lightly with him, afraid to say something that might send him over the edge. He doesn’t know how to feel about that, how to take Rocket’s concern after years of dealing with his sarcastic tones and his blunt way of dealing with emotions. 

_ How… long… has he been dead? _

“Yeah, she is…” Peter hesitates, feeling the sickness coming back with full intensity this time, threatening to overtake him. “But this one isn’t.”

“She… she’s a zombie?” Peter looks up just in time to witness Mantis peering up at the alternate Gamora. Her antenna are wilted and drooping, but it’s an improvement from the last time he saw her. 

Peter isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to shake the phantom touch of ash against his skin. 

There are a lot of things he isn’t sure he’ll be able to look at the same after this.

* * *

He has just retreated to the cockpit after another argument with Thor, but deep down, he can’t find it in himself to care. 

Captain, not captain… it makes no difference to him. As long as the Benatar is headed to wherever the _ other _Gamora is, Thor can take over. He’ll probably make a better captain anyway. Peter keeps proving that he isn’t very good at his job.

_ He was supposed to keep them safe. _

Peter sits in the pilot’s chair as he fiddles with the Zune in his hands. The stars feel almost blinding to him now. The light reflects off the window at an unnatural angle and stings his tear-filled eyes as if someone’s blowing directly onto his retinas. The cockpit is strangely quiet, an eerie silence that normally would have prompted him to play one of the many songs on his Zune. This time, Peter can’t risk what might happen if he clicks shuffle.

With music being as important to him as it is, it’s never been just something to fill the silence. Music fills a piece of him that has always been empty. Music is a part of him, filling the gaps in his soul and sewing together all of the things that have been ripped from him too soon. Every lyric is attuned to who he is, telling his story with its poetic harmony. Peter has spent his whole life pouring his heart and soul over every word, finding ways to release his pain with the utterance of every syllable. The music is his, and he is the music.

Now, it seems the music has a bigger hole to fill.

So, Peter is afraid. He’s afraid of what might happen if the melody dies down and he is still as hollow as when it began.

“Quill?” comes the inquiry of a man he can’t find it in himself to hate. Peter is shaken out of his thoughts, shoving the mute player into the pocket of his grey sweatpants.

“Yeah?” Peter replies, unable to rid his voice of the annoyance that he has tried so hard to shove down. How can he be upset about something he knows is true?

_ He let them down. _

“We should talk,” Thor says. His blond hair is still the unkempt mess of greasy tangles that it was when Peter first came back, but his beard has been trimmed into a more manageable and easier on the eyes version of what it was. Peter should be taking pleasure in the absence of the muscles and abs that once made him feel inferior and small, but the man’s beer belly somehow brings him no gratification.

“About what?” Peter doesn’t move to look at Thor, instead facing the burning starlight that flickers back at him. He hears the Asgardian sit down in the co-pilot chair. There is a small creak as he leans back into the leather.

“I have no interest in being the captain of your crew, you know that right?”

Peter is startled into looking over at Thor. He exhales sharply, not having expected those words to come out of his mouth. Something along those lines maybe, but part of Peter is hesitant to believe that Thor has been messing with him all along.

“Doesn't seem like it,” Peter huffs, pulling one of his knees to his chest and feigning casualness. He just wants him to leave so he can go back to sulking in private, maybe then he can focus more on the ways he can bring Gamora back.

“Well, I don’t. As fun as it is to mess with you Quill, this is your ship. You are the captain. I know that.”

“Well, good. Glad we cleared that up then.” Peter straightens his posture in his seat and breaks up their impromptu staring contest. The sincerity in Thor’s eyes leaves a lump in his throat as Peter begins to sense where the conversation is headed.

“Do you know that?” Thor asks, a genuine undercurrent in his tone that cannot be mistaken.

“Know what?” Peter squeezes his arms a little tighter around his knee.

“That you’re the captain.”

“What?” Peter sputters. _ What the hell is that supposed to mean? _ “Of co—of course I know that! I’ve made that perfectly clear since the moment you crashed into this ship...”

“Yes, yes you have.” Thor sighs. “But… Do you know _ why _ your team chose you to lead them?”

Peter knows where this is going. Thor is here to yell at him and chide him for not stepping up and acting like their captain. He’s here to tell him how much of a failure he has become, how much he’s let them down since he became captain. Peter knows that it’s true, but that doesn’t mean he has to sit here and listen to it.

“If you’re here to tell me I need to act more like a captain I swea—”

Peter’s eyes flash back over towards the Asgardian as he senses movement in the corner of his vision. Thor has his hands up in a placating manner, but it only serves to piss Peter off even more. “No, no... I came here to say the opposite, actually.”

“Really? And what’s that…”

“Your team chose you because they trust you. They care about you, Quill.” Thor smiles weakly.

Peter scoffs. “I don’t need you to lecture me about my own famil—”

“No, listen. I don’t know much about any of you, but I do know the rabbit. All of those years he went on about what an amazing team you have. He told me stories about how you had each other’s backs, how you did everything together...”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is, they’re worried about you, Quill. This captain thing… It doesn’t mean you have to do everything on your own. They… _ We _ have your back.”

“I’m fine,” Peter bites back. He is considerably affected by Thor’s words, but he is still unsure of how to take it. He knows he means a lot to his team, but sometimes the pressure of making sure he’s doing right by them overpowers his thoughts. Sometimes it is hard to sense how much they care.

“I know this is difficult, Quill. You don’t have to pretend...”

Peter shakes his head, anger weaving its way back into his brain. “Wait, what? I’m not pretending anything. I told you. I’m 100 percent fine.”

“Gamora—” Thor starts.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut and wills the tears not to fall. “Don’t…”

Thor exhales. “She meant a lot to you—”

“Means. She _ means _ a lot to me.” Peter looks at him quizzingly.

Thor shifts in his seat, turning his body to face him head on. Peter focuses on the hollow circles beneath the man’s eyes. The rings are deep, purple and bruised, and Peter is sure he’d see the same exhaustion staring back at him if he had a mirror.

“I get it, Quill. It took me five years to accept my brother’s death, and I still haven’t comple—”

“No, shut up.” Peter shakes his head again, bunching his shaking fist into the fabric of his pants. “Don’t talk about her like that. D-don’t talk about her like she’s…”

Peter bites his lip, greeting his tongue with the familiar taste of copper. He whips his head back over towards the window, constructing his new plan to stare at a distant star until his vision fades to black.

“I’m not giving up on her yet.”

Thor gulps and nods in Peter’s peripheral vision. “Alright.” He coughs once, and then sits in silence for a moment. “If you need anything—”

“I don’t,” Peter says simply, and that’s that.

Peter wishes they’d all go back to laughing at him instead.

* * *

“Quill!” A booming voice reverberates through the ship, shaking the walls as the figure approaches him. He doesn’t need to look up to recognize Drax’s resolute voice.

“Hey, buddy,” Peter says flatly, not breaking away from the screen occupied by Gamora’s gentle face. After all these years Peter’s still lost in her eyes, as he often is whenever looking at her. If he could, he would sit there for the rest of time, retracing her features and solidifying his memory of her. 

That’s not needed, of course. He can never forget her face.

Peter sees her face everywhere now. It is inescapable and miserable, but it hurts so good. He’d call it torture if it weren’t for the undeniable beauty hiding in the tragedy of it all. Since the day he met her, his entire world has been flipped upside down and painted with the colors of _ her. _He has been living in a world of greens and magentas and browns that have so recently become black and white in his soul, leaving him drowning in a colorless world. He’s trapped in an empty place, devoid of the light she has shown him, the light he never knew existed.

But he still sees her. He can see the essence of her beauty in every living and non-living thing. He’ll never forget her face. No, the Universe will never allow him to forget her. She is everything good. 

Peter will see her in everything good until the end of time.

He forces himself to look up at the word above her image. The same phrase lights up the screen. _ Searching, _it reads. The red letters blur together incomprehensibly, twisting and warping into each other just as they had when he was in school, before he was given his translator.

You know, before his mom died and he was abducted by space pirates…

It can be blamed on his exhaustion, this time, and yet once again Peter can’t find it in himself to care. Sleep has never came easy to him, and to try now would be a hopeless cause.

“You must stop this incessant search, Quill,” Drax says. “You have been searching for days and Gamora is no closer to being found.”

Peter bites his lip to keep from lashing out. His muscles tense with burrowed anger, itching beneath his skin and begging to be released. He wordlessly decides to keep it hidden for now. They can’t know how hard he is trying to hold onto his sanity.

They can’t see him break.

“What should I do then? Let Gamora wander around in a timeline she knows nothing about?” Peter yells out, his control slipping. “We’re the only ones who know her—Who know what’s _ best _ for her…”

“We know nothing of this Gamora!” Drax yells back, or _ says _ in his normal voice—Peter is never sure. “She isn't the friend we knew.”

_ Knew... _

Peter almost loses every semblance of control at that one simple word.

“I don't care!” Peter practically cries out. He digs his fingernails into the skin of his palm, grounding himself with the dull pain of crescent shaped marks. “She’s _ a _Gamora, and she’s our responsibility.”

“My sister is no one's responsibility,” Nebula says, emerging from one of the dark doorways, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. Peter jumps at her arrival. His anxiety has always been harder to hide. “She can take care of herself, she always has.”

“H-huh? Hey!” Peter digs his nails in deeper. “Come on, you too?”

Nebula shakes her head and surveys him warily before flicking her gaze to the screen behind him. “Do not give me that.” She rolls her eyes. “I want to find my sister as much as you, believe it or not, but I know this Gamora. She will not be found until she is ready to be found.”

“So that’s why you two are in here? You're here to tell me, _ what _ exactly? That our Gamora’s dead and I’m just wasting my time?” Peter’s voice quavers with a small crack. “That I—That _ we _ should just give up?”

Peter’s anticipating one of Drax’s brutally honest comments, but it never comes. Instead, he catches Drax looking down at his feet, his features conveying a sense of loss and guilt.

Peter gulps. A bit of brutal honesty is starting to sound pretty good right about now.

“She will come back when she is ready.” Nebula’s voice becomes softer, if that’s at all possible. “And when she comes back… it will be up to her whether or not she wishes to stay in this timeline.”

Peter’s attention sparks at that. “What?” He shifts on his feet. “You mean—you mean she can… she can go back?”

His pulse skyrockets. He knows she isn’t _ their _ Gamora, for lack of a better word, but still the thought of losing her again, no matter what Gamora she truly is…

It’s agonizing.

“Yes, you moron. Banner says they have a few extra Pym Particles.” Nebula sighs. “As much as I hate to admit it, this Gamora does not belong here. I will be surprised if she chooses to stay.”

Peter curls his fist even tighter. He draws in another breath, but the air feels too thin. “Are you kidding? Of course she belongs here! She belongs here with us!”

“With the versions of you in _ her _timeline, you idiot!” Peter’s eyes go wide. “Oh, don't tell me you forgot about them…” Nebula shakes her head. “If there are other versions of her then you must not be dense enough to forget about the versions of the rest of you!”

All of this timeline mumbo-jumbo is starting to get to his head. There is a consistent pain behind his eyes, an ache that fills him with nausea and makes him want to sleep forever. A nice, eternal rest six feet underground sounds more and more appealing by the second.

“In case you haven’t noticed… I’m an idiot, Nebula. How do we know that he… that _ I’m _not already dead? How do we know we aren’t sending her back to nobody?”

Nebula cocks her head and glares at him. “Why would you be dead?” she deadpans.

“There’s been a lot of close calls in my life, that’s for sure.” Peter laughs, his self-deprecation rearing its head. “My point is… we don’t know enough about her timeline to send her back. The whole system’s been completely messed with!”

Nebula lets out a quick breath of air, the closest approximation to a laugh that he has ever heard from her. “Well, the other you is not dead. I saw him. Knocked him out, actually.”

“You _ knocked _ me out?” Peter is starting to grow very tired of the state of complete and utter confusion that he’s been in since he has gotten back.

“I had to get to the Power Stone somehow, genius.” Nebula crosses her arms. “You do know you look like a buffoon when you dance to that stupid music of yours, right?”

Peter ignores the sharp-ended jab of that barb and focuses on the first part of her statement instead.

The Power stone. The stones. The _ stone— _

_ “I know something he doesn’t. And if he finds it out, the entire universe could be at risk,” Gamora says as she paces the floor._

_“What do you know?” he asks, brow creased as he looks over at her._

_ “If I tell you, you’d know too.” Dammit. Why does she always feel the need to protect him? _

_ He walks over to her and hesitates. “If it’s so important, shouldn’t I?” _

_ “Only if you wanna die.” _

Peter knows that he should have begged harder for the truth. Maybe, if he would have known...

“The stones! Of course, how did I not think of it before?!” He swipes away the image of Gamora on the screen and pulls up a picture of the Soul Stone instead. “We use the stone to get her back! _ Our _Gamora this time...”

“Are you serious, Quill? Don’t you think we would’ve tried that when we had the stone? If that was a feasible option then Tony would have—” Nebula falters, that wound particularly fresh. 

Stark’s funeral was dismal, but it was there that Peter was able to piece together what Nebula and Rocket’s five years had been like. They had made some new friendships, but none were alike the friend Nebula had made in Stark. Apparently they bonded over their near death in the dying Benatar, or something like that. Peter doesn't want to question it, exactly. After all, the first time he has ever seen her smile was when she was recollecting memories of him.

_ “Then_… Stark would have done it. Besides, we do not have the stones anymore,” Nebula finishes, casting her gaze away.

“That is correct! The captain you call America returned them!” Drax says with renounced enthusiasm, as if they aren’t discussing the very stones that killed them and half of all living things.

“Then we get it back! We go to Vormir, we talk to that d’ast stonekeeper and demand to get it back… _ Or, _even better, we tell ‘im that he has his freaking stone back, so it’s only right he gives us Gamora!”

Nebula shuts her eyes and takes in a steadying breath that whirs in tune with her mechanics. “And when that doesn’t work… What then? What do we do when the stonekeeper demands another sacrifice?” she asks.

“Then we give him one!” Peter pauses, sobering up slightly. “I… _ I _give him one.”

He told her once that he would do anything for her. And he meant it when he said it, _ stars, _ he still means it. There isn’t a d’ast thing in the Universe that he won’t do for Gamora. Any version, any time.

Nebula steps forward and shakes her head with disapproval. “And _ that _is precisely why I am not taking you to Vormir.”

“What? Are you serio—”

“I am completely serious, Quill! You are an idiot, but my sister happened to love you…” Nebula hesitates briefly, but then comes back with full force, “I will not let you die in vain because you’re too mentally unstable to get a grip on reality! Especially when we do not know if such a thing is even possible—”

“I can’t live without her, Nebula!” Peter chokes back a sob. “I’ll do _ anything, _ we have to try everything—”

“Five years, Quill. Five years I’ve been coming up with ways to restore what Thanos broke. For five years I have been forced to rebuild my life after he took away the only people who have ever mattered,” Nebula says, whispering the last statement as if she’s embarrassed to admit it. Peter wonders if he is included in the list of those few people. “I found no way to reverse my sister’s sacrifice.”

_ Right, five years. He keeps forgetting. _

“You can all give up if that’s what you want, but I won't. I’m not giving up on her.”

He doesn’t get much sleep that night. 

Or the night after that.

_ ...after that... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've barely scratched the surface guys. It's about to get a whole lot worse...
> 
> Oh, and, I guess I'm writing in present tense for this one. Sorry, I talk about tenses a lot for a girl who hardly even registers them when reading other fics. For some reason I critique my own work mercilessly...
> 
> As always, please leave kudos, reviews, or drop in your favorite quotes! :))


	2. A Price to Pay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for all your kind reviews on the last chapter! You guys keep me writing!!
> 
> This chapter is going to be a real turning point so, caution, dark themes ahead...
> 
> Happy Friday the 13th everyone!

If there’s one thing Peter’s sick of, it’s how often Nebula is right about things.

Peter doesn’t like being wrong, he never has. 

He doesn't think anyone truly _ likes _ being wrong, at least no one on his team does, but Peter thinks he takes the cake with this one. 

He hates being wrong more than anyone he knows. It’s not pride or a fragile ego that can't handle being proven incorrect. There’s a reason for it.

When he’s wrong, people die. It’s as simple as that.

He remembers his mother's outstretched hand. He remembers how he turned away from it, believing wholeheartedly that grabbing her hand would be like admitting that she was dying. Giving up, almost. Peter believed that maybe, just maybe, if he pretended everything was fine, she wouldn't leave him.

Peter was wrong. His mother died without comfort. 

She paid the price.

Peter believed that Ego was the father he had been looking for his entire life. Wrong. 

Yondu paid the price.

Peter had his fair share of believing that certain missions would go according to his ‘well-thought-out’ plans. Time after time, he was wrong, and someone paid the price for it.

Most of the time it’s him during missions, he’s the weakest after all, but still…

He screws up. Someone gets hurt. Prices are paid.

Peter’s biggest fuck up of all was his belief that they could beat Thanos. Gamora _ warned him, _time and time again she told him that Thanos was coming. It’s not that he didn't believe her (he believes everything she tells him), it’s just that it was always easier to believe that whenever Thanos came, they would be the ones to prevail.

He never thought they would lose. He never thought that Thanos would actually…

He was wrong. Gamora paid the price.

So Peter’s sick of being wrong, he’s sick of everything, really, and he _ absolutely _ does not want to hear Nebula’s _ I told you so’s _ right now.

Nebula was right. It’s Gamora who finds them. She wants to go back. She says she doesn't belong here.

And Peter pays the price.

* * *

He watches her as she sits in her— _his Gamora’s —_seat. She speaks with words that he knows she has carefully chosen in her head, using precise language and sounding stiff in nature.

Every so often, her hand ghosts over Godslayer from where it’s clipped onto her belt. There are two Godslayers on this ship now. Hers, and—well, _ hers. _ The gears in his skull are turning so hard his brain will be a guaranteed pile of mush if he keeps this train of thought going.

Nebula sits across from her, lounging back slightly (as far as Nebula gets to lounging) in what he knows is an attempt to appear as non-threatening as possible. Their relationship was tricky in the beginning, and it’s going to take a little convincing for this new-old version of Gamora to adapt to this amiable version of her and Nebula’s relationship.

“Where have you been this whole time, sister?” Nebula asks.

Gamora’s jaw stiffens and Peter hears an audible click. “Around. Trying to figure out my place here, now that Thanos is… dead.” She seems reluctant to believe that he’s actually gone, but that’s to be expected. Peter’s sure if his Gamora _ (stars, _ he hates the way that sounds) were here, she’d have trouble believing the same thing. It seems none of them ever anticipated the possibility of a life without Thanos.

“Yes, it is strange. Isn't it?” Nebula says. She surveys Gamora, taking in her ragged appearance. It doesn't look like she’s fared very well on her own. Peter’s heart pangs at the small gash above her cheek. He’s always hated seeing her hurt. Even the smallest of injuries have been enough to set him off.

Gamora nods. “Yes. It is, but it is even stranger being here.” She takes in a deep breath. “Nine years in the future. Can you believe that?”

Nebula sighs. “Father got what he wanted, I suppose,” she says. “It does not have to be that way anymore, though. You can have your life back, in the time you are from.”

Peter stills from where he’s standing off to the side of the living area. Gamora’s head whips around to look at him, and that's when he notices how much his heart rate has picked up. The two women haven't paid much attention to his presence before, but now they’re both analyzing him from across the room.

He turns away and descends down the hallway, but— shamelessly —lingers far enough down the corridor that they won’t be able to hear him unless they actively try to. He can still hear their conversation, though he has to strain his ears a little to make out every word.

“What is it with that one?” Gamora asks, and it damn near kills him to hear her speak about him like that. He has to remind himself that this is what she was like when they first met. He can't take it to heart.

“He is a fool, but he has good intentions. You two were in love,” Nebula says.

“In love?” Gamora scoffs, like even after all that talk about alternate realities and quantum time machines, the most unbelievable thing is that she was in love with _ him._

“Find it hard to believe that you are destined to go soft?” Nebula jokes. Her tone lightens up a little, and Peter’s reminded once again how he isn't the only one whose life is infinitely better with Gamora in it.

“I find it hard to believe that any version of me was able to love someone while Thanos was very much alive.” Gamora hisses his name like it’s the vilest word she has ever said. “How could I—how could _ she _ put this whole team in danger?”

“You act like they never knew about Thanos. They knew the risks. They have always seen you as… family.”

Peter shuts his eyes and leans back onto the wall. He tries to calm his thundering heartbeat before it alerts them of his presence.

“How… how long were we together?” Gamora asks, and Peter's not sure whether she means the whole team or her and him.

“Four years,” Nebula says. “You met them not long after the age you are now. It only took a couple of months before you started dating Quill.”

That’s not exactly the whole truth, Peter thinks. They had an unspoken thing going long before they ever started dating, and yes, while the events on Ego _ did _ spark their admittance of a possible relationship, it took a little while longer before she was comfortable with being called his girlfriend. But, yes, _ four years. _ The best four years of his life, by far.

“We were together for four years?” she asks, more as a statement of disbelief than a question. “How does he feel about me leaving?”

Peter opens his eyes and leans off of the wall. He feels like he has to stand straight in order to pay full attention to this part of the conversation.

“It is not his decision, sister.” Nebula says sharply.

“He probably wants me to go. I am not the woman he loved. It must hurt him for me to be here.”

Peter has to hold himself back, afraid he’ll lose control and run in there begging on his knees for her to stay. Nebula will set it straight. He has to keep calm.

“You have a place here, if you wish to stay. Quill will respect whatever you choose, we all will.” Nebula says.

There is silence for one excruciating minute, before Gamora exhales shakily and gives her answer.

“If it is still alright with you, I want to go back.”

Peter makes no noise. He doesn't gasp or cry or run in there and beg like he thought he would. He just freezes. He freezes and then he turns on his heel and walks the rest of the way down the hall. 

* * *

He runs into her in the middle of the night.

She’s pacing around the ship. The moonlight hits her and ripples like a waterfall down her form, the light reflecting off of the shiny brunette hair at the crown of her head. She moves with rhythmic motions, stepping in even increments as her boots tap against the floor.

Her expression is pinched into a frown, and Peter wonders whether it would be less painful to go back into their room and fall back into the nightmare he’s just woken from.

His nightmares are infamously awful, but so is… whatever this situation is.

(Y’know, whatever the situation is called when one’s soulmate is stuck in an infinity stone while the past version of her roams around and decides she wants nothing to do them.)

It’s the moment she jerks her head to look at him that Peter loses his breath.

She’s so _ young. _

Four years isn't much, but finally being able to get a good look at this past version of her makes him realize how much she changed over those four years. How much they all changed.

Peter can hardly even remember what life was like before then. It all seems so far away, like a past-life he doesn't recognize anymore. How did he ever live without her?

_ How will he ever live without her? _

Peter shakes himself from those thoughts. This Gamora is leaving, yes, but the Gamora he knows is still out there. She has to be. He will do everything he can in order to get her out of that stone or wherever its sacrifices go. He isn't giving up.

“Oh, sorry… I’ll just—I’ll go,” Peter stammers, making to turn and leave as quickly as possible.

Gamora grabs his shoulder and stops him in his tracks. He looks down at the slender hand resting on his shoulder, and she pulls her hand away as if she was burned.

“No. This is your ship. You can stay out here. I will go,” she says.

Peter shakes his head. “Not really. It—It’s not really _ my _ ship, I mean… the Milano, _ uh _ —the other ship we stayed on… _ that _one was mine. This is ours, our ship.” Peter cringes. Why is it so hard to speak all of a sudden? It’s like every time he opens his mouth to speak to her, something in his brain just won't cooperate.

She nods, but he doubts she understood any of that. Hell, he barely understood himself. A pregnant pause passes between them, and Peter registers that he’s been staring.

“Uh, look. I’m sorry. I’m not usually—” He pauses and lets himself get his thoughts in order before he speaks again. “This is just weird. It’s probably even weirder for you, and now I’m just making it even weirder. Sorry. I’ll just—I’m gonna go.”

As he turns to leave Gamora’s words stop him.

“You loved her.”

Peter stops and faces her again. Her words leave him breathless and he has to take a second to regain his composure.

“I still do,” he says. “And it’s _ hard, _ because you are her, but you're also not and… I just _ really _don't understand this whole timeline thing.” He laughs a bit uncomfortably.

She doesn’t laugh, though he hoped she would. “It is hard. I don't quite understand it either.”

The silence returns and they let their gaze linger over each other. Her stare is in curiosity, he knows. She's probably trying to determine how it is that she found him worthy of being her partner.

“Nebula says we are on our way to Terra to meet a group called the Avengers_. _Is that where you are from? Terra?” she asks. 

He knows her. He knows how she sometimes phrases questions in order to get desired information that does not lie in the direct implication of her question. What she really wants to know is whether he is actually a Terran. Many species are unable to distinguish the difference between Terrans and Xandarians, and she probably wants to make sure her suspicions are correct.

“Yeah.” Peter nods. “I’m Terran… well, er, _ half _Terran,” he adds, incase she doesn't know how Terra works and questions whether other species can be born there. Plus, it makes him feel better to tell her directly instead of standing there while she tries to figure him out.

“I was under the impression that Terra is—” she stops, afraid to offend him.

“Backwater? It is,” he says with a shrug. “People there didn't know other life existed up until recently.” She appears confused, so he fills in the gaps. “I was abducted as a kid.” 

He doesn't even try to explain all of _ that. _ It’s better left unsaid and besides, Peter does not have the energy to divulge into Yondu and the nature of their relationship right now. Also, he really doesn't need to be focusing on any more tragedies right now.

He’s not sure how he is managing to speak to her without collapsing in a pit of despair, but things continue to surprise him these days.

A deep, dark part of his brain says that it’s because this may be one of the last times he ever sees her, so that part of him knows he has to keep it together. It’s a good thing that Peter is known to selectively pick and choose the thoughts that he wants to believe, much to the annoyance of his team, otherwise that mere thought would’ve broken him. After all, it’s focusing on the bright side of things that has gotten Peter through all of the shit he’s been given.

_ Bright side, bright side… _Gamora’s not dead. Not really, at least. There’s still hope. He’s going to see her again.

“That is awful,” Gamora says. It comes out soft and innocent, and Peter’s urge to burst into tears slams into him with full force.

_ It wasn't so bad. I met you, _he wants to say. “Didn't have a whole lot left for me there anyway,” he says instead.

Gamora nods and looks back towards the window, taking in the light as it pours through. She keeps nodding, and purses her lips.

“I understand that. I do.”

_ This isn't her time. There’s not a whole lot left for her here anyway... _

* * *

“And you are sure this is what you want sister?”

She nods. Her tangled curls bouncing with the movement.

This isn't his choice to make, he knows that. But that doesn't make it hurt any less.

“She’s all set,” Banner says. 

_ This is the last time he’s ever stepping foot on this damn planet. It isn't his d’ast home anymore. Nothing good comes from this place. He swears, this is the last time he’s ever going to— _

“Quill.” Rocket snaps him out of his thoughts.

“Hm? Yea-Yeah I’m… Wait, huh?”

Rocket’s face falls. Maybe he isn't doing a very good job convincing them he’s fine. “It’s time,” he says.

“Yeah, yeah okay. Sure.”

The other Gamora bites her lip, obviously uncomfortable with their emotions and blatantly unsure of what to say. Her gaze is fixed on him, he’s aware of this, but he also knows that he’ll burst into tears if he looks into her eyes for too long. He bears holes into the floor instead.

“Quill?” Her voice rings in his ears, and his head shoots up at the sound. The way she says his name chips at the shattered remnants of his heart, her tone a muted and unsure pronunciation, likely repeating what she had just heard from Rocket.

“Hey,” he whispers, wanting to assure her that it’s okay, that she is allowed to make this decision. “It’s—”

“I promise, I will find them. I do not belong here in this time, but I promise, I’ll find all of you.” Her words drip with ferocity, her voice thick with emotion at her promise. “This team… You have something special here.”

_ “I want you to promise me… you’ll kill me.”_

Peter nods, unable to face her. His gaze wanders over her features momentarily, and his tears catch in his eyes and threaten to break through. “If you—If you end up finding him…er me, will you… um, will you tell him something for me?” His voice wobbles.

He’s starting to break.

Gamora hums. “Anything.”

A wayward sob sticks itself in his throat. He swallows and squeezes his fists at their sides. “Just… Just tell him we've never been very good at showing appreciation for the people we've got... til they're gone. He needs to do better. _ We _ need to do better.”

_ Take my hand._

_ He may have been yer father boy, but he wasn’t yer daddy._

_ I love you, more than anything. _

Breathlessness snatches him again, holding him up by his lungs and squeezing the air out of him like an oversized balloon. His entire body feels deflated, like he is mere moments from sinking into the ground.

“I will tell him,” Gamora says softly, even more dejected and lost than before he started speaking.

_ Nice going, Quill. Disappointing your girlfriend in every timeline now, huh?_

“Oh, and Quill?” Her tone is gentle, as if waking him from a nightmare. 

She is though. This is one giant nightmare that he is begging to be woken up from, wrapped up in her arms and listening to her voice as it brings him back down. This Gamora can’t possibly know how hard this is for him. She will end up finding out, probably, but it’ll be too late for him. Maybe one day, she will find herself wrapped up in the arms of another version of him, so full of love, and she’ll realize just what he lost on this day. Maybe that version of them, free from the threat of Thanos, will hold onto each other especially tight, overtly aware of the circumstances that allowed them to be together.

“Yeah?” Peter’s breath catches.

“I don't know much about... well, us, or you, but... you have. From what I have seen… she knew how much she meant to you.”

Peter nods, the tears breaking forth despite his best efforts. They roll down his cheek and trail down his neck, no gentle hand there to swoop in and wipe them away.

“I hope so, I really hope so.”

* * *

The liquor in their glasses slosh as they slam them together, drops of incendiary liquid spilling onto their hands and dribbling down their chins. Peter hiccups as he swallows down another mouthful, the liquid warming him from the inside out. His cheeks feel flushed and hot, but the haze above his head is welcomed graciously.

“S’lot of bars opened up when you were gone,” Rocket stammers as he pours himself another glass. “You’da thought there’d be less, with y'know, less people but…” The raccoon trails off, his intoxicated brain fumbling over the words he forgot to choose before beginning the sentence. “Turns out people still wanted booze, and alotta’ve it too.”

Peter snorts and lifts his glass again. “Good’ve a time as any.” His smile fades as he mulls over Rocket’s words. “I don’t blame ya. _ Stars _ know I woulda’ve been in the same boat.”

Peter frowns and continues, “I kinda am, I guess.” He throws back the rest of his drink and reaches for the bottle instead.

Rocket nods sheepishly and swirls the contents of his glass around in his hand. “Yer not alone, though.” He sighs. “I wasn’t neither, I had Nebs, but… you have all of us, y’know that right?”

“Mm,” Peter mumbles through the top of the bottle pressed against his lips. “I’ve got Mora too,” he whispers with resolution.

Rocket sucks in a breath, placing his glass back down onto the Benatar’s tabletop. He cringes, sniffing a few times before speaking. “Quill, I think maybe you oughta consider—”

Peter shakes his head before throwing it and the bottle back for another lengthy sip of the astringent fluid. “M’not considering nothin’ til we’ve tried everything.”

“What is there left to do?” Rocket asks.

Peter is starting to wonder the same thing.

* * *

He stole a pod.

He stole a pod from his own flarkin’ ship.

Peter didn't have a clue where or what Vormir was before he punched in the coordinates, but that’s where he’s headed.

He is going to get Gamora back no matter the cost.

Or at the very least, he’s going to get some fucking answers.

Peter begins his trek up the mountain as soon as the pod lands on the rocky terrain. He shivers as he walks, the piercing chill of the planet leaving raised bumps on his skin beneath the long sleeve and the simple leather jacket thrown on over it. Peter wraps his arms around himself, rubbing his hands up and down his sides to keep from freezing to death.

Walking the trail to the top of the mountain registers as a feeling like no other. He keeps his guard up as he takes in the sights around him. The wind roars with every step, powdery gusts of snow nipping at his nose. His eyes sting as he walks against the force of the flurry, but he refuses to shut them, even for a moment. Peter forces himself to take in what would have been Gamora’s last moments. He retraces her steps, needing to understand everything that happened while simultaneously hoping it will let him feel closer to her.

Amidst the deafening wind, Peter swears he can make out the faint call of his name. An even cooler burst of wind jolts his senses, and he halts in the middle of the path. “What?” Peters says under his breath, wrapping his arms even tighter around himself to preserve what little body heat he has left. The calamity dies down, and with the absence of noise comes the distinct declaration of his name before the elements rile up again.

Peter furrows his brow and looks around him. There is no one in sight, no one who could have called out for him. His frown deepens as he begins to walk once more, picking up his pace now that he fears he’s not the only person in search of the stone. Futile, probably, now that Thanos is dead, but he can’t risk it.

He knows what Gamora would say if she could see him now. First, she would berate him for not being prepared to endure the planet’s climate, insisting he return to his pod before his systems shut down due to his species’ low range of tolerance. Then, she’d yell and scream at him for what he is about to do. 

Peter isn’t sure what that entails exactly, but he’s about to find out.

It’s kind of funny, because Peter can make out a conversation in his head that feels so natural, so vivid that it’s almost like it is actually happening.

_ “You said you’d do anything for me, Peter. So go back. Go back to the Benatar, baby. For me.” _ An instinctive voice rings in his head.

“Don’t you see, Mora? This is for you. This is all for you.” Peter laughs somewhat hysterically to himself as he treks up the mountain. He’s in the homestretch now, finally able to see the top that awaits him. Dread pools in his abdomen like liquid ice, and Peter’s lying if he says he isn’t at least a little scared of what’s to come.

The voice doesn’t speak again, but the wind picks up with an intensity that rivals any conditions he has ever weathered. The extreme conditions slow him, but he continues to climb the remaining distance that separates him from what he has to fulfill. Peter stumbles as he makes it to the top. 

He pauses a moment, bracing himself against his knees while he attempts to catch his breath. The wind ceases its vigor, giving up the fight.

“Welcome, Peter Quill, son of Meredith,” a shadowy figure speaks as it looms over him. Peter staggers back, reaching for his blaster.

“Who the hell are you?” Peter says, but he already knows. He keeps his blaster trained on the face of the silhouette. The figure steps out of the shadows and floats down to his level.

“It is my curse to guide all who seek the Soul Stone, and to warn them of what lies ahead if they choose to possess its power.” The keeper’s voice echoes all around Peter, reverberating in his eardrums. It sounds like he has his former orange headphones on, but he knows those serve no other purpose than to comfort him now that his Walkman is nothing more than a pile of crushed plastic. It strikes him as a bit of a metaphor (one that would leave Drax scratching his head, no doubt). His Walkman was once a part of him, a physical representation of his being. It’s almost inevitable that he’d end up reduced to the same pile of broken pieces in the end—emotionally and, _ well, _ depending on how this goes...

“Cut the bullshit,” Peter snaps. “Where’s Gamora?” He keeps his blaster raised and ignores the memory of a certain face standing in front of it. “Lie to me and I swear I’ll blow off what’s left of your freaking nose and—”

“Gamora, daughter of Thanos,” the apparition says. Peter takes in a deep breath and tightens his grip around his blaster. He stops himself before his finger goes anywhere near the trigger. The red skull guy won't be able to show him where Gamora is if he’s a smear on the ground, Peter reminds himself. “In order to take the stone, you must lose that in which you love. A soul, for a soul. Gamora’s sacrifice is remembered by the stone. It does not forget.”

Peter shuts his eyes and tries not to picture Gamora tearfully dragged off the side of the mountain. There is no way she would have gone willingly, not when she would have rathered Peter blast her in the face.

_ Thanos didn't love her. Thanos didn't love her. _

“Just tell me what I need to do to get her back.” Peter steps closer to the figure, his hand shaking with the weight of the blaster. With the way the skull guy looks from up close, foggy and composed of shadows, Peter isn’t sure a blast can even do much.

“I do not have all of the answers to the Soul Stone, but I do know how you may acquire it. You must lose that in which you love.”

“I’ve already lost that man, that's why I’m here!” Peter cries out as he lowers his blaster. “Tell me what I need to do. Captain America returned the stone, isn't that enough?”

“The sacrifice has already been made. It makes no difference to the Soul Stone,” the stonekeeper says calmly, as if none of this is of any importance at all.

Peter wedges his way over to the cliff. “So tell me what I need to do then, Skeletor. Do I need to throw myself off this mountain? Because I will, I’ll do it…”

Peter’s breath is stripped from him as he peers over the cliff. Upon the floor, hundreds of feet down, are a multitude of colorful stains, viscous fluids that appear tacky and fresh from where he stands above them. A particular, dark green puddle sticks out among the masses. This time, bile pushes past his throat and out onto the snow-covered rocks beside him.

Peter dry heaves a few moments more, wiping his sleeve against his mouth once he is sure he is finished. He stumbles away from the cliffside and stares off into the horizon.

“The stone requires a sacrifice. One cannot sacrifice themself for the stone—”

Peter whips around to face the stonekeeper. “Then don't give _ me _ the stone. Give the stone to my friends, or… just bring Gamora back once I’m gone, please…”

“That is not how the Soul Stone works,” the skull speaks, drifting in and out with the wind.

Peter bites back a cry and grabs at his hair, pulling the strands as if the action will bring forth a magic solution he hasn't thought of yet. His breathing quickens, desperation increasing as he realizes that maybe they were all right. Maybe there is nothing left to do. Maybe he has been delusional the whole time.

Maybe he should just throw himself off this cliff and hope for the best.

“Quill!” A voice picks up in the breeze. He turns around quickly, balance shifting and—

Hey, when did he get so close to the edge?

He rights himself and steps forward, further away from the cliff, but still close enough that every nerve in his body tingles with the looming threat. In the distance, a group of people shout his name. Are they running? Yeah, they’re definitely runni—

“Quill! Get back from there, now!” Nebula’s voice calls out. 

_ They’re here? They followed him? _

“Quill, whaddya think you're doing? What’s this supposed to solve?” Rocket scurries forward on all fours, stopping a few yards back, seemingly afraid to push it and get any closer to him while he’s in this state of desperation.

Peter shakes his head, realizing far too late that he is openly sobbing, tears streaming down his face as his entire frame trembles. “I can feel her here. I’m not crazy, I promise.” His voice fractures, each word hidden behind sobs, their meaning lost to everyone but himself. Judging by the faces of his team, they seem to piece it together.

“We know you’re not, Quill. It—It’s fine, just get the hell away from there so we can talk it out, yeah?” Rocket’s voice becomes quiet and subdued, his hands out in the same placating way that Thor used on him before. This time it doesn't piss him off. Instead, it somehow makes him feel sadder, more broken.

“I am Groot!” His eyes are full of terror as he yells over the wind, and _ dammit he shouldn't be here to see this. _

“I’m not… I don't—” Peter breathes out. “You’ve gotta trust me, guys. I don't wanna do this, but… I’ve got to make the sacrifice. One of you needs to help me do it.” He tries to cease his sobbing, but he only becomes more frantic, digging his fingernails into his skin and shutting his eyes with as much force as possible. _ Damn it Quill, get it together. _

When he opens them back up, he catches his team looking amongst themselves. Rocket sighs and gives the group a quick nod before turning back towards him.

_ Finally, coming to their senses. _

Mantis approaches him tentatively, and Peter wants to swoop her up in a big hug, reassuring her that it’s okay, that he knows what he is doing. He doesn't move though, still glued in the same spot, pathetically sobbing with each breath.

There are tears in her eyes when she steps beside him. She places a hand against his bare wrist and smiles weakly.

Just when he thinks she is about to push, she whispers.

“Sleep.”

In his last second of awareness he feels his body collapse into her arms before he’s lowered gently onto the safe ground, feet away from the edge of the cliff.

Then, his vision goes black.

He’s never known darkness as dark as this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes...
> 
> I'm sorry, things only get worse from here on out.
> 
> As always, please leave kudos, reviews, or drop in your favorite quotes! :))


	3. Slightest Bit of Reason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (potential trigger warning: mentions suicide/self-harm—Non-graphic!!)
> 
> The trigger warning is just there because I'm paranoid and really don't want to make anyone feel bad if I can avoid it. Please let me know if I need to add more...
> 
> Please enjoy the latest chapter of Mercy No More! It's pretty dark guys...

_ They sit atop the bed in their quarters as they mull through the piles of clothes waiting for them on this particular laundry day. Peter’s Zune sits on the counter, a soft feminine voice exiting the device, barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of the engine whirring. _

_ He’s folding over the delicate lace of one of his favorite articles of clothing that Gamora wears when her voice cuts through the mundane silence of the chore. _

_ “Peter, who are Romeo and Juliet?” _

_ He’s a mixture of entirely distracted and genuinely confused before he recalls the lyrics of the song currently playing. It’s too quiet for him to pick up word for word right now, but he has (unashamedly) heard this Madonna song enough to know the lyrics she’s referring to. _

_ “Oh, um, well they were characters in this Earth play,” he answers hesitantly as his brow furrows in thought. He’s always had a pretty selective memory when it comes to Earth things, the space in his brain primarily taken over by lyrics of specific songs and everything to do with his mother. The exact plot of a play that was written three some centuries before his birth, now, that was not on the priority list of his eight-year-old self’s memory. _

_ “A… play?” she repeats. _

_ It’s always difficult explaining certain Earth concepts, especially when one concept cannot be explained without a hundred separate explanations within that explanation, but she’s alway enjoyed learning about his homeworld, and he has shared that sentiment in return. _

_ “Yeah, a play. It’s like a movie, sorta, only the actors perform live on a stage for an audience. Romeo and Juliet was this super old play,” he explains. _

_ She purses her lips as if concentrating, her brow furrowing not unlike his own. “Why would Romeo and Juliet never feel this way?” Gamora asks, referencing the lyrics to the song. _

_ Peter attempts to wrack his brain for whatever hazy memory of the play still exists. He knows it must be a very famous Earth reference, given the sheer number of songs that name drop the characters of the play within their lyrics. The author of the piece rests on the tip of his tongue, and although he’s positive he never read it (given his limited, third grade education on Earth), he hopes his pop culture knowledge will be enough. _

_ “It’s okay if you don't remember,” she says with a wince. She must be guilty for bringing it up, knowing just how uncomfortable it makes him feel to realize that there are a plethora of things on Earth that he doesn't remember, or perhaps never even knew. She shares this in common with him too, he knows; it’s much easier to believe that they're experts on the subject of their homeworlds, though they both know that is far from the truth for the both of them. _

_ He shakes his head, communicating that it is alright, he’s not bothered by it. He’s also pretty sure most of it is starting to come back to him. Peter isn't sure exactly where he must have heard the story but, after-all, his mother was a bit of a hopeless romantic, so it wouldn't have been unlike her to tell him the story of Romeo and Juliet. _

_ “It’s a little hazy, but I know they were lovers. Like, one of Earth’s ultimate couples. Tons of love songs mention them. I’m pretty sure this one is saying her and her partner's love is so strong that it rivals even Romeo and Juliet’s.” _

_ Gamora nods, accepting his explanation but still pursuing her lips as if there is more to ponder. “What made their love so special?” _

_ He grabs a pair of his own pants and begins to fold them rather meticulously, hoping the action of moving his hands will somehow allow him to recall things better. “I think it has something to do with how tragic it was,” Peter says with a minuscule shrug of his shoulders. _

_ “Tell me?” she says, eyes lighting up at the prospect of hearing another one of his stories from Earth. She can’t get enough of them, it seems. _

_ He nods and pats an empty spot beside him, pushing away a bundle of mismatched socks and shirts. Gamora sighs at herself, fully aware that she’s just allowed him to avoid doing the laundry for even longer now. She makes no protest though, instead gracefully leaping from her spot across the bed and landing right where he wants her. _

_ She curls into his side and wraps a leg around one of his own, pressing her head down onto his chest. This is one of his favorite ways to hold her, and he absolutely loves whenever they lay like this during one of their late night conversations. _

_ They sit in silence for a couple beats before he speaks, simply enjoying the moment for what it is. _

_ “Romeo and Juliet were these teenagers who fell in love, only they were from two families that hated each other, so their relationship was outright forbidden,” he starts, rubbing circles across her back as he speaks. “They decided to be together anyway but it was hard, y’know, trying to sneak around and stuff.” _

_ Gamora nods against his chest, and he can sense how enamored she is even without seeing her face. _

_ “Juliet decided one day that she was going to fake her death so she and Romeo could run away together. That way they could be together without their families telling them that they couldn't,” Peter says. “Romeo was supposed to know that her death was faked, but for some reason he was never told that it was, so he thought she had actually died.” _

_ “Sounds like a major error in communication,” she says, exhaling and letting out a pitiful laugh. “And then what?” _

_ “Romeo knew that he wouldn't be able to live without her, so he killed himself thinking that she was dead. Juliet found out what he had done after and then did the same.” _

_ Gamora sits up and searches his face for some hidden explanation. “That is the great, ultimate love story of Romeo and Juliet?” she huffs. “Should I be worried that the story of the most cherished couple on your homeworld ended in a dual-suicide?” _

_ Peter laughs. “That’s not the part that makes their love great. It’s that they loved each other so much they couldn't live without one another.” _

_ Gamora shakes her head. “Both of their deaths could have easily been avoided had they used even the slightest bit of reason before doing something so drastic.” _

_ Peter nods. “Yeah, I don't disagree. Love makes you do stupid things, I guess.” _

_ “Not that stupid I hope. Besides, even if Juliet truly was dead, I bet you anything she would have wanted Romeo to keep on living,” Gamora says. _

_ Peter lets out a quick exhale. “Probably. I don't think Romeo was thinking about what Juliet would have wanted though. He thought she was dead and at that moment he decided he didn't want to be without her.” _

_ Gamora stills and bites her lip. “If I was Juliet I would have wanted you to keep on living without me,” she says quietly. _

_ Peter shakes himself. Suddenly, Romeo’s actions don't seem so outlandish anymore, and he feels the overwhelming urge to defend them. “Don’t forget that Juliet did the same thing when she realized that Romeo was dead. Don't you think Romeo would have wanted the same?” _

_ She’s silent for a moment, lips twisted with an unreadable expression. His skin feels hot and for once he is glad she isn't touching him, otherwise she might pick up on how badly this conversation is affecting him. _

_ “What if it was… different for Juliet? What if she wanted him to live without her, but she knew she couldn't do the same?” Gamora pauses. “Would you want me to end my life if you were Romeo?” she asks. _

_ Peter shakes his head, knowing with one-hundred percent certainty that he would not want her to follow in Juliet’s footsteps if it came to that. It’s an awful situation, and either way he comes out of it a hypocrite. “No. I wouldn't,” he says. _

_ He shakes his head again, but this time he moves as if he’s shaking the conversation from his train of thought. “Hey,” he says, and she looks back up. “We’re so much better than Romeo and Juliet. If everyone on Earth knew about us, they’d forget all about them and we’d be everyone’s favorite couple.” _

_ Gamora laughs and sinks back into his arms, resting her head back onto his chest. He kisses her on the top of her head and she relaxes in his grasp. _

_ “So the ratings haven't gone down?” she teases. _

_ “Nope. Definitely not. They can't get enough of us.” Peter laughs and pulls her flush against him, nibbling at her ear and her neck as she begins to squirm and giggle at the assault. _

_ Making the Deadliest Woman in the Galaxy giggle is his favorite pastime. _

_ Her laughs slowly subside and she freezes in his arms, literally, icicles begin to crystallize on her skin, leaving his fingertips numb with the sensation. The entire scenery around them morphs into a haze of snow and wind that swirls around their heads. _

_ He’s standing back on the cliffside. _

_ He whips around and instead of the stonekeeper, he sees the approaching silhouette of Gamora, her figure distinct and unmistakable. _

_ Peter’s breath escapes him. _

_ Her hair is tangled and sticks against her face with its wetness. He notes the seeping ooze of green from the side of her head, matting her hair together with the clumps of it. The vibrant green hue of her blood trails down her face as well, pooling inside one of her dead eyes. _

_ The rest of her is far more harrowing to witness. One of her arms bends unnaturally at the elbow, as does one of the fingers on her left hand. He doesn't dare look down again once he catches sight of the waterfalls of blood pooling from her legs and back; he knows that those areas must have gotten the brunt of the impact. _

_ He feels like he’s moments from collapsing, but for some reason he’s glued in the spot and cannot do anything but look into those lifeless brown eyes. _

_ “Look at you, Peter,” Gamora says. “Look where we are.” _

_ Peter tries his vocal cords but they feel frozen too, completely stuck. _

_ “We are in the Capulet’s tomb and the poison is in your hands, Romeo. What is your next move? Do you jump? Do you let go?” she says, her voice devoid of everything that makes her Gamora. _

_ This is just a dream. This is just a nightmare. _

_ She steps beside him and he tries not to focus on the sound of crunching when she walks, her gait unnatural and broken. Gamora grabs his shoulders and turns them both around, facing the bottom of the cliff. _

_ “We aren't so different from them, are we? Juliet is dead. Wouldn't it be so easy to let go, Romeo?” _

_ Peter feels himself nod, though he doesn't recall having moved his head in the first place. The bottom of the cliff suddenly doesn't seem as bad as it did earlier; the blood stains are all gone this time, and now the floor just seems… inviting. _

_ “Go on ahead,” she says, but Peter knows that Gamora would never, ever urge him to jump. This is himself. A deeper, darker part of his subconscious that he never knew existed. But it calls him. It calls him to jump and he’s never wanted anything more and his feet take several large steps and then— _  
  


Peter jolts awake.

His hands run down his face in an attempt to piece together his thoughts, to get himself in order. Peter heaves with every breath, begging his speeding heart and failing lungs to do their jobs.

A heavy knot sits in his stomach along with the nausea that hasn't dissipated since Thor smashed into their windshield; a gut-feeling, an intuitive sort of sickness that’s there to remind him that something is wrong.

These are the worst kinds of nightmares, the ones that start off as real memories before rapidly turning into disturbing figments of his twisted mind. He hates them more than anything, hates how his brain takes wholesome memories and corrupts them forever. He wonders if that’s how it’s always going to be; whether the rest of his life will be spent twisting and mutilating the only pleasant thoughts left residing in his fucked up head.

He throws his head back down onto the bed and shoves his face into the comforter. It’s then that he notices the noise coming from outside his quarters. He listens for a moment before burying himself even deeper into the mattress.

Peter holds his pillow over his head, drowning out what he now knows to be the sound of his team, not-so-subtly, whispering about him out in the living area. He can’t make out the whole conversation, nor is he trying to, but a few things are hard to miss.

“...new code for the pod…”

“...can’t just let him fall apart like this…”

“...need to go in there and say something…”

“...you wanna be the one to do that?”

“...just needs time…”

Peter rolls over onto his stomach, squeezing the sides of the pillow against his ears and muffling a large groan into the mattress. The hallway instantly goes silent and a few harsh shushes resonate throughout the ship.

Shit.

Sometimes he forgets they were all born with unnaturally enhanced hearing or, in Nebula and Rocket’s case, have the upper hand thanks to their modifications. That’s not so weird in space. Humans, er—Terrans have a shitty almost everything, with a few exceptions, when compared to other species. He’s used to being weaker, slower, less resilient, _ fragile. _ He really should be more aware of these things than he normally is. After all, these are the things that cost him the family he had been searching for his whole life.

“Peter?” A soft voice and gentle knock echo from behind the door. Peter barely contains a sob at the memory of what was once Gamora calling from outside his quarters, as she often did. Being a mess that hides away in his room when troubled isn’t exactly uncharted territory for him.

Mantis’ voice is hard to miss. She’s soft-spoken like Gamora is—_ was (God, he doesn’t have the emotional capacity to do this right now)— _but Mantis has always maintained an introverted approach with everything she does. It is no different now, as Mantis calls out to him with the same timid voice she uses whenever emotions become too much to handle or whenever she’s unsure about something. 

Peter supposes it could be both this time. Gee, what a shocker that’d be.

He kind of wants to scream or tell her to go away and see how long he can hold his breath until he passes out, but it's _ Mantis. _ He’s positive his team did this on purpose, seeing as Peter pretty much declared Mantis his adopted half-sister about a week after Ego, and it is still in his very nature to protect and preserve whatever innocence she has left.

Yeah, so maybe forcing his sister to literally knock him unconscious so he wouldn’t throw himself off the side of a cliff wasn’t exactly the protective, big brother thing to do, but he was tired and out of options. So, _ sue him. _

“Come in,” Peter says roughly, as if his vocal cords recently took a trip through a meat grinder. He coughs twice and then clears his throat, all the while Mantis pushes open the unlocked door.

Privacy was one of the first life lessons he gave as her self-appointed big brother. Not everyone on the ship was thrilled about her ability to read their emotions, Drax excluded (he’s always been an open book), and so a few ground rules had to be made. Knocking, was an extension to this lesson. 

If Peter’s being honest that was less about wanting her to understand privacy and more about him and Gamora needing ways to keep their newly spoken-unspoken thing a secret.

He is halfway between a smirk and a mental breakdown when Mantis speaks, throwing him from the memories of when he and Gamora had first begun to explore the physical side of their relationship. They had their awkward moments at first, discovering what they each wanted while Peter tried to convince Gamora that _ “yes, your pleasure is just as important as mine” _ and _ “this is about us, it’s not supposed to be one-sided” _ after years of being convinced that her needs were supposed to come last. Peter had been all too happy to prove those teachings wrong.

“How are you feeling?” she repeats for the second time, sensing that he had been lost in memories and has only now begun to pay her his full attention (if he even has the capacity for such a thing anymore).

Peter shrugs.

How does he feel? It’s a question he hasn’t allowed himself the chance to consider. He’s worse, Peter knows that. He’s worse than he was before he went seeking the answers he ached for. But also, somehow, he feels..._ nothing? _ It’s weird, and it hurts more than the grief did, but he finds no way to voice that and so he settles with, “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t get a chance to think about how stupid he must be to try to convince an actual empath that he’s _ fine _ after everything that’s happened in the last few days because Rocket emerges from around the corner, the distinct lack of crying apparently motivating him to do the thing he was dreading rather audibly in the living area. 

Rocket has never been the emotional, hug-it-out type of guy, but he has also never been one to keep his overall care for his team a secret. Not since Ego, at least. It seems, after five years without them, he is still apprehensive when it comes to mushy feelings, but his concern has grown even more apparent.

“That better have not been an ‘I’m fine’ that just came outta yer mouth, Quill,” Rocket says, and he sounds tired too, a little defeated.

_ You did this to them. _

Peter remains dutifully quiet, a self-preservation tactic he’s learned to use whenever someone sees through his bullshit and his knee jerk reaction is to convince them that he’s telling the truth. A self-preservation tactic, for someone whose concerns do not currently lie with any preservation of the self. He almost laughs at the irony.

“You look like hell, Pete. And I’m not saying this to be rude or anything, but really,” Rocket says, “Groot’s worried. He doesn’t understand, y’know, everything that’s happened with Gamora and all—”

_ Does anyone? _

Rocket sighs, and again Peter notices how much he’s aged without them.

“Groot’s worried. We’re all worried.”

Peter feels a burning sensation in his eyes, the sign of warm tears welling up around his waterline. He wants to take back the _ I’m fine, _ wants to try to explain how he feels in any way besides words. He wants them to feel the sensation of his heart ripping in two, his soul collapsing like a supernova does when it becomes a black hole. Peter wants them to know what it’s like for his eyes when they begin flutter shut but are jerked open by his obsessive need to keep himself conscious, safe from the nightmares he knows he’ll face.

He wishes they could know the feeling of the spear of light that’s jammed its way back into his chest, because the two women he loves most in this Universe have been murdered in cold blood by megalomaniacs who decided that _ they had to. _

But they can’t.

* * *

Time has passed by incomprehensibly for Peter these past few… days… _ weeks? _

Incomprehensible, like he said.

If he has to guess, it’s probably been upwards of a week and half since Stark's snap. The only way he can discern that it’s been a decent amount of time since he’s returned is the sudden call that blares over the holo. Nova Prime, it reads, a small picture of her face in the upper right corner of the screen.

So, it's been long enough that she’s deemed they should be fit to return to work.

“Who's calling?” Rocket asks as he comes to sit beside Peter in the cockpit. He doesn't wait for him to answer and swipes at the screen with an idle finger.

The call log pulls up, displaying information about the caller for Rocket to see. Peter doesn't miss the grimace that forms on his face as he sees that the call is from Nova Prime. 

He wonders if the thought of taking a mission is as distressing to Rocket as it is for him. Of course, Rocket’s been around to go on missions with Nebula and the Avengers, so it's likely a little less daunting. Still, they’re missing the heart of their little ragtag group of ex-criminals, Peter’s pretty much out of commission (there's no point in denying the truth), and it's clear to everyone that they’re a little out of their rhythm right now.

The biggest understatement of the century, Peter thinks.

“Should we answer?” Rocket glares at the screen as if it will fade away if he prays hard enough. He almost laughs at the thought of Rocket praying to any sort of higher being. Peter’s almost positive he would never, but also, five years is a _ long time, _and Peter isn't really sure about anything anymore.

Peter shrugs. As much as he wants to decline the call and bury himself in the bed that has suddenly become _ way too big _ for just him, he knows that he can't. They have a responsibility. How can they call themselves the Guardians of the Galaxy, capital letters and all, if they can’t help the damn people that helped them turn their lives around anyway?

Peter’s not sure he cares about any of that stuff anymore, if he’s being honest. It feels like a sucker punch to the gut to think about, so he has been keeping it hidden for the most part, but he doesn’t know if running around and pretending to be a hero is worth it anymore. If he can't protect the people that he loves, then how the hell is supposed to protect the whole d’ast galaxy? 

“Probably should,” he mutters, but doesn't reach for the controls. Rocket spares him a brief glance before he accepts the call.

Nova Prime’s face lights up the screen just as Drax, Nebula, Mantis and Thor file into the cockpit and stand behind them. Peter’s breath hitches at the familiarity of it, how they stand waiting for whatever news Nova Prime has to share with them. He remembers all the times they have done this before, with the exception of Thor, and suddenly emotion wells up in his throat.

Peter pinches his thigh and presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Even after everything, he’s still determined to keep his grief hidden from them. He still feels like he has some responsibility as captain to keep them protected from knowing just how messed up he must be inside. Now’s not the time to get sentimental about the past, he decides. He has enough nostalgia eating at him from the inside out.

“Guardians,” a recognizable feminine voice says—one that Peter has since associated with firm authority. Peter nearly jumps at the sound of her voice, leaping from his train of thought. He takes in a deep breath to steady himself. 

Regarding her now he notices that she looks roughly the same since the last time he’s seen her.

“It’s always a pleasure to see your faces again.” She nods, and no one misses how those words carry an added weight after, well… everything.

“Good to see you too. ‘S been a while,” Rocket says. Peter checks another tally in his head on the side of people he knows didn’t survive the snap. 

Her face contorts into a grimace of sorts, one Peter understands all too well. “It has, hasn’t it? Denarian Dey has informed me of all that you have done for Xandar in my absence. I cannot express my gratitude,” she says to both Rocket and Nebula, though she still appears to be wary of the latter.

From what he has gathered based off of Rocket and Nebula’s accounts, they spent many of those five years helping Xandar rebuild after Thanos’ decimation, without Nova Prime’s jurisdiction (he pieces together that last part now, for obvious reasons).

They nod and a brief silence fills the air. Peter feels a strange pressure to speak, the silence somehow louder than sound could ever be.

“How can we help?” Peter says, and hopes that the words didn’t actually come out as pained as they just sounded in his own ears. He isn’t even sure he’s ready for her to answer.

Nova Prime looks at him and frowns. Peter bites the thinning skin of his lip that he’s reopened over and over again. The taste of blood greets him as it always does, reminiscent of a form of currency he once used on Earth, a tangy undercurrent of a depleted metal. It’s all he can do to distract himself from the look of pity that she’s offering him.

She ignores his question. “My condolences,” she says to all of them, but doesn’t remove her gaze from his. “I know these are difficult times for all of you. Gamora was a valued --”

_ \-- She rolls over in bed next to him, her eyes flickering as she takes in the length of his body, studying every inch of him that isn’t wrapped up in blankets. _

_ Normally when doing this she has a smirk on her face, a knowing gaze that tells him she knows exactly what she is doing, but this time her features are blank. Distant. _

_ “What is it, babe?” he says, because he knows her; there is something wrong, something she’s been bearing on her own. _

_ “I just… I can’t lose you, Peter. Ever.” _

_ He’s momentarily thrown off from the abruptness of the conversation, but he takes in a deep breath and pushes down his similarly placed fears. This isn’t about him right now. _

_ “What? I—Gamora you aren’t gonna lose me. I’m here.” _

_ “Not forever. You aren’t safe…” She’s scared, he can see it in her eyes. “As long as Thanos is alive, you aren’t safe Peter. One of these days he’s going to come for me. But it won’t be me that’s in danger, Peter. He’ll take you from me… he has to know everything about us by now—” _

_ “Babe, baby, please—” He grabs onto her shoulders, holding her as she curls in on herself. “We’ll deal with that if it happens. We’ll handle it like we always do. Remember Ego? Don’t think you get to help kill my shitty not-father without me getting a turn at yours…” _

_ Gamora snorts despite herself, shoving him a little as she tries to make the gravity of the situation apparent, as if the discussion needs any more of that. “Peter. Not funny.” She sobers up as her slight giggles dissipate. “You will not be facing Thanos. Whatsoever. You hear me?” _

_ “Mora…” _

_ “No, Peter. When Thanos comes, it will be my fight. If he gets you… he’ll have me. I’ll do anything to protect you. He knows this. He knows --” _

Whatever words Nova Prime says next are lost to him, muffled by his own ragged breathing and rising panic brewing in his chest. He breaks eye contact with her and focuses on his lap, away from the conversation he knows he won’t be able to make it through. It feels like he’s underwater, the words spoken around him rippling and warping in and out his eardrums. He wonders if it’s at all possible to write this off as some freak translator malfunction instead of the brewing panic attack that he knows it to be.

_ Get yourself together, Quill. _

He tries to heave a breath into his oxygen-starved lungs before he becomes aware of a hand lingering against the skin at the back of his neck. The pressure in his chest lessens considerably, as does the haziness in the corners of his vision. He exhales a shaky gasp and manages to look over his shoulder. Mantis’ antenna glow for a few more moments until the hand he now knows to be hers extracts itself from his skin. 

He doesn't miss the trails of tears rolling down her cheeks either.

Peter doesn’t particularly _ like _that this is becoming a regular occurrence, but he can’t find it in himself to be upset with her. If anything he’s horrified with himself. He can’t control his emotions anymore; he has lost all semblance of control.

Nova Prime’s expression of sympathy morphs into one of complete lament. The conversation has been put to a halt, and the cockpit is thrown back into suffocating silence. Peter hopes against hope that no one has asked him a question.

Peter catches Rocket’s stare before the raccoon looks back up at the screen. His eyes are watery and twinkle with an emotion Peter can’t place. He clears his throat before addressing Nova Prime. “What do you need us for?” Rocket says, his voice taking on a newfound bitterness. It’s subtle, but screams, _ if you don't shut up and get on with it lady— _

Peter steels himself when he notices the visible wince that Nova Prime fails to suppress. Maybe she’s reconsidering that whole “fit to return to work” thing.

“We have just gotten word,” she starts, enunciating each word with caution, “that supporters of Thanos’ cause have been creating… _ disturbances _ in this quadrant.”

Peter sucks in another breath and senses Mantis’ hand inching closer to the back of his neck, hovering with apprehension. He straightens his posture and tries to relax, slinking away from her touch and hoping she gets the hint that he doesn’t want her to continue to subdue his emotions.

As shitty as the pain is, it 100-fucking-percent beats the numbness that he’s accustomed to these days.

Plus, he deserves the pain, he thinks.

_ Her last moments were nothing but fear and pain and agony and— _

“And what is our role in this?” Nebula speaks. She clicks her jaw and steps forward. She must be tired of this. Nebula dedicated her whole life to get revenge on Thanos and now, even after he is dead, it seems the cycle will never end.

It is not fair that she has never known peace, that her entire life has been centered around the shadow of a man that follows her around wherever she goes. Thanos is a piece of her identity, it seems, as much a part of her as the machinery he replaced her with. 

If Peter is this exhausted, there is no telling how drained Nebula is.

“You would be tasked with bringing them into our jurisdiction.”

Drax bellows a robust laugh and claps Rocket on the shoulder. Rocket snarls and rubs at the joint once the massive hand is removed. “We shall rip them limb from limb and blaze their bodies over an open flame,” Drax says with glee.

“Actually, if you can help it, we’d like the supporters to be returned alive,” Nova Prime says, her face screwing up due to Drax’s helpful imagery.

For the first time during this entire conversation, Peter is compelled to actually speak his mind. “Why?” he grumbles. “I’d like to see some limb ripping if it’s all the same to you.”

“It is not actually.” She is exasperated, they all are, but Peter isn’t going to let this slide without an explanation. _ What is she protecting them for? _ She clears her throat. “Xandar has just gotten back on its feet. It is in our best interest to avoid actions of violence that may jeopardize our security.”

Oh, that’s it. She’s covering her own ass. She doesn’t care about justice, or what should be done; she only cares about doing the bare minimum. 

No one cares. It’s got to be them. It has to come from _ him. _

Peter interrupts Drax as he begins to question how a planet can have feet to get back up on, “Okay. We’ve got it covered. Send us the information we need and we’ll get on it as soon as possible.” Peter stands and faces Nova Prime directly. His typical, spokesman charade comes full force, his charismatic nature and Ravager tactics serving him well. Nova Prime seems taken aback by the change in him, as does his team, but no one speaks on it. 

Peter’s not even entirely sure where it's coming from, but it's the only burst of energy he’s gotten in a long time, so he takes it as it comes.

“Very well.” She shakes her head with startled confusion. “Thank you Guardians,” she says, and ends the call.

Rocket takes one look back at the rest of the team before he looks up at Peter from where he stands. “Quill? You sure this is a good idea?” he asks.

Peter looks down and narrows his eyes. “Is what a good idea? We need the units,” Peter says simply, as if saying yes to Nova Prime’s request was their only option.

“We have more units than we know what to do with,” Nebula says. “Rocket and I didn’t exactly go on any shopping sprees while you were gone.”

Peter scoffs. _ When I was dead, she means. _ There’s no point in sugarcoating anything anymore. Everyone was completely fine with using past tense and calling Gamora dead when he was convinced that she wasn’t. Now that he has finally begun to see the truth, they want to make everything sound normal and tolerable—like the Universe itself isn’t falling apart at the seams.

“Out of everyone I thought you’d want to take this mission, Nebula.” Peter turns towards her and stares directly into her eyes, testingly; an action he wouldn’t have dreamed of taking only days ago.

Nebula glares back with menace. “Whether or not I wish to take this mission is irrelevant. I am just pointing out that we have enough units to spare. Besides, you do not get an opinion, you are on suicide watch after what you pulled on Vormir!”

Memories of his nightmare and a shell of Gamora’s broken body urging him to jump off the cliffside come back to him with full force, and his fist curls as tight as it ever has. He feels the telling sting of blood beneath his fingertips, and it grounds him, if only for a second.

“I knew what I was doing! If you guys would have just let me—”

Rocket huffs out an unbelieving laugh and then stands up in his chair, throwing a pointed finger in Peter’s direction. “You were going to throw yourself off a cliff! Don’t pretend like you possibly could have known what the _ hell _ you were doing!”

“I am Groot!”

Mantis steps forward and makes her voice known. “Groot is right. Enough with the yelling. We are all hurting emotionally; we must stick together,” she says.

Peter runs a hand down his face and resists the urge to slump back down into his seat. “Look. We’ve been doing nothing since… since everything happened. I just think it’d be nice to have something to do to get our minds off of everything for a little while,” Peter says.

It’s an outright lie. Peter knows that no amount of missions or jobs could ever truly make him get his mind off of Gamora, but—

There’s something calling him to this particular job, and damn right he’s going to do everything in his power to convince the others to take it.

Rocket sighs and eases some of the tension in his shoulders. “You want a distraction? We’ll go out and get ya whatever job you want. We’ll go visit some orphanages or bust some thieves on Contraxia. This mission...” He pauses. “It’s just a little too personal, a little too soon, ain’t it?”

Peter bites his lip and loosens his curled fist. “I’m fine, Rocket. These assholes need to be taken down a peg and we’re the only ones Nova Prime trusts to do that.”

Everyone turns to look at Rocket for his approval. Strangely, Peter’s okay with that. He trusts Rocket to be their new captain; he sure as hell wouldn't have slipped up as many times as Peter has if he were captain all along.

_ Maybe Gamora would still be alive. _

Peter isn't sure how long he’s been staring directly into Rocket’s eyes, not daring to look away, before the raccoon breaks.

“Fine! Jeesh! Alright... we can go on the d’ast mission!”

An odd sense of joy fills Peter at that. Joy isn't the right word for the sensation, exactly. It’s like that feeling you get when you realize that the bullet has missed your heart, instead having wedged it's way into the tender flesh of your shoulder or a place devoid of vital organs.

So, maybe not a super relatable feeling, but Peter knows it pretty well.

“On one condition!” Rocket yells out, throwing his accusatory pointer finger back at him. “Stop saying ‘I’m fine’ and shutting us out all the time, okay? I’ve gotta be the voice of freaking reason since none of these saps have the balls to stand up to you and say that, apparently!”

“Yeah,” Peter says, nodding slowly. “Okay, yeah, I’ll work on that.”

“You better. I already went five years without Star-Munch’s sorry ass, I don’t wanna have to go any longer.” Rocket muses in what Peter assumes was meant to sound like his usual antics. It comes out somber instead; not unlike most things these days. The admission fills Peter with dread.

He’s been selfish, hasn't he? To Rocket, he had been dead for five whole freaking years. The least he should be doing is trying to act like his normal self and help his friend out.

Now that Peter thinks about it, he hasn't even so much as _asked_ Rocket if he is okay. And here Peter is, nearly falling apart on the daily, even though what he has gone through pales in comparison to others. Not to mention _they all_ _lost Gamora too._

_ He really is selfish... _

“We would like to see you get back to your old ways, friend Quill.” Drax agrees, clapping him on the shoulder. Peter winces.

“Yes. It is okay to not be okay. We just want you to be open. Honest,” Mantis stresses the last word, almost begging.

His old ways.

Peter doesn't want to be selfish; he knows that he has been, but also he has no clue how to make things _ normal _again. He doesn't even know if normal was ever the right way to describe it.

If it was that easy, he would. He almost sort of _ wants _to. He kind of wants to grab his Zune and dance around the ship listening to Hooked on a Feeling. He wants to close his eyes and pretend that the small device on the counter is his chunky, beloved Walkman. He wants to roll over in bed and hug one of his pillows, pretending the cold fabric is the skin of a complaining Gamora, pestering him to give her the bundle of blankets he has pressed against him.

But he isn't _ crazy. _ He can't just go around pretending like things are normal when they aren't. He can't just live a lie.

He isn't crazy.

He’s not.

* * *

Peter hasn’t gotten proper, real sleep in too long.

He can tell from the way that his eyes droop that it’s beginning to present itself as a bit of an issue. Even bigger of an issue is the way he starts to zone off, becoming practically dead to the world as he stares aimlessly at a distant object for minutes at a time before he’s even aware of what he’s doing.

He’s sitting in his usual seat, only his controls are locked and Rocket’s taking over. His flying privileges have been taken away, although Peter has no idea why (I mean, come on what is he going to do? Fly the Benatar to Vormir while they're all on it?). He doesn't have any business complaining though. If the way he sees twin planets instead of just one is any indication, he's not in any condition to be flying.

“We’re about to reach the planet. We’ve got to be stealthy about this; last thing we want is for these bastards to figure out we’re here before we turn their sorry asses in.” Rocket handles the controls with ease as he barks commands, leaving Peter both disquieted and in awe.

Peter sighs and leans back in his seat. “Can I have my blasters back yet? Or are you planning on sending me in defenseless?”

They’ve been treating him like a child. There is no reason they should be micromanaging him like this. He’s not sure how his willingness to sacrifice himself for Gamora has translated into the suicidal tendencies they’ve taken it for, but yet here they are.

Besides, Godslayer is sitting by his belt where he’s just sheathed it and it’s been with him ever since Knowhere. If he was planning on trying anything, he would have already.

For the record, he would never. He’s thought about it, fleetingly, but Gamora wanted him to live. Peter’s always been adamant about following her wishes. 

That’s probably why she said it. She always had a feeling that she would be the first to go.

Rocket sighs and points to a box in the corner of the room. “Knock yourself out,” he says, but then adds, “Not literally though. Don't get any ideas, Star-Munch.”

His words are light and witty, but his tone conveys a different mood altogether. He sounds distrustful and vaguely unsure. Peter huffs out a laugh and chooses to take it as a joke instead.

Rocket clears his throat before speaking up. “Listen up. This goes for everyone. Nova Prime ain't paying us if these guys don't come back to Xandar alive so… weapons are for self-defense only. Don't kill no one ‘less you have to.” He sighs like the pyromaniac he is. “Stun guns are our new best friends.”

“Got it,” Thor says from somewhere off to Peter's left as he eyes Stormbreaker in his hands. Peter nearly jumps at the sound of his voice. It comes as a bit of a shock to him, having momentarily forgotten the Asgardian was here. “No killing. No fun.”

Normally, Peter thinks he might have laughed at a joke like that. Something inside tells him that in another scenario, they’d probably end up being good friends. Another timeline maybe.

He’ll leave it to the other version of himself to figure that one out. After all, that's the version of him that has his shit together; he has Gamora, has his whole team. He has _ everything _ and Peter has _ nothing. _

It's easier for Peter to be bitter and jealous and angry at Thor. It's way easier than sorting through the deep seated self-hatred and insecurities that he knows he’s projecting on the god.

“Alright then. Everyone buckle up, we’re entering the atmosphere now.”

Peter’s almost fidgeting out of his seat. He runs his hands up and down his thighs, his upper wrist making slight contact with the hilt of Godslayer as he moves. He doesn't know why he brought it, only that he couldn't leave it on the ship and having it by him makes him feel oddly secure.

He steels himself, waiting anxiously as the Benatar touches down on the planet.

Like many things, Peter’s unsure. He’s unsure of how this particular mission is going to go, but he knows one thing.

He’s not planning on playing by the rules.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaah, what is Peter going to do?
> 
> No, really, like... I have a pretty specific outline, but my characters run away with themselves and do the craziest stuff without my prior planning. We'll have to wait and see what the next chapter entails, but I can at least tell you that a lot of Stuff™ goes down...
> 
> As always, please leave kudos, reviews, or drop in your favorite quotes! :))


	4. The Fundamentals of a Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little longer than the other chapters; hopefully it will make up for the wait!
> 
> Enjoy!!

Peter walks as slowly and as stealthily as possible upon the gravel lining the streets of the abandoned planet. Loose pebbles and debris wedge in between the crevices of his boots, crunching beneath his soles as they trot on.

Something Peter has always been aware of is the specific atmospheric conditions of each of the planets he travels to. Yondu taught him to be aware of this pretty early on; he even saw to it that his mask was equipped with the mechanics needed to inform Peter of the exact percentage of oxygen in any setting. Yondu always said it was just a precaution. _ “Jus don’t wanna carry yer ass back to the ship after you collapse from oxygen deprivation, boy,” _were his exact words when Peter asked why he cared.

Terrans require an oxygen percentage of no less than nineteen percent. Anything below that and a whole range of negative side effects spring up. Most of which Peter learned the hard way.

The barren and desolate planet the Thanos supporters have been taking base on is exactly that: bare, bleak, and devoid of the native life that once lived here. It’s one of the many planets that Thanos wiped half the population of — good old-fashioned genocide (before the infinity stones). Unsurprisingly, the decimation showed results that were foreseeable to everyone except the Mad Titan himself. Lack of people meant less farmers to gather and plant crops, less food, less workers… and thus ended an entire civilization.

Thanos of course, saw no issue in this and carried on despite the obvious flaw in his reasoning. Now, the very planet he left in ruin serves as a base for his supporters rather than evidence of his ignorance and insanity.

Typical.

Anyway, the point is, the planet is devoid of fauna and most of its flora. So, the oxygen in the atmosphere is not capping at the most habitable levels.

Ten percent, says the readings inside Peter’s mask. His lungs take in a deep breath and once again, Peter thanks Yondu for the rush of recycled air that he receives. 

“How are you guys not dying?” Peter asks once again, his whispered voice amplified with the mask. He hates the taste and stuffy feeling of using the recycled oxygen reserve. He likes to avoid vacuums of space and oxygen devoid planets whenever he gets the chance, thank you very much.

“We’re not all lumpy, needy Terrans, Quill.” Rocket says, currently distracted by the geo-tracker in his hands. The red blinking light in the corner indicates that they’re approaching the base, but still have a while to walk before reaching it.

“Your species is from Terra, dude. I don’t care if you wanna deny it, but there’s no way you should be able to handle this atmosphere right now,” Peter says, partly out of worry and partly out of suppressed frustration from constantly being the weak one. Leave it to his friends to be completely fine in conditions that are almost half of what the _ minimum _ is for him.

“Nothin’ in the Universe like me, ‘cept me. Remember, Quill?” Rocket huffs, lacking the bravado for a statement like that. “Besides, doesn’t matter what I am. I’ve got modifications that’ll let me be in oxygen depleted environments for a while,” he says.

Peter sighs. _ Of course he does. _

“And the rest of you?”

“Same,” Nebula deadpans, walking beside him as she scouts the terrain for possible threats. She’s on high alert, not paying much attention to them or otherwise contributing to the conversation beyond a few words at a time. Peter’s sure it is in her very nature to be nothing short of one hundred percent aware of her surroundings. Probably even more so than Gamora, seeing as Nebula had to prove herself capable to Thanos her entire life.

Mantis, on the other hand, smiles and hops along the path, undeterred by the startling lack of breathable air. “It is not ideal, but it is enough for my species.”

Drax shrugs and takes in an exaggerated breath. “I do not see the difference in this air compared to our normal supply.”

Peter sputters. “It’s like a whole eleven percent less!”

“I am Groot.”

Peter sighs and flicks his eyes over to the carbon dioxide reading in the upper left corner of his mask. “Yeah buddy, I know. Lots of carbon dioxide for the taking…”

Thor trudges on with Stormbreaker swinging gracefully beside him. “Don’t look at me. I survived in the vacuum of space, this… this is nothing.” 

Peter can’t resist rolling his eyes at that. That’s Thor for you. Always needing to one up everyone in any given conversation.

“I did too! I totally… That’s something I’ve done before too...” Peter trails off.

That feels like the wrong thing to have brought into his fragile mind apparently, because Peter is consumed by memories of taking off his mask, clutching Gamora’s failing body towards him as her eyes remain dutifully shut, her face taken over by frost from the frigid temperatures of space…

Yondu’s eyes glazing over as Peter’s hands claw at the suit placed on him against his wishes, the auto lock preventing its removal. And—

Gamora. _ Oh, god. He’s gotta save her, but he doesn’t know why… but he just does and he knows her mods won’t keep her alive much longer and Yondu’s coming and… _

“...m Groot?”

“Just give 'im a second, Groot.”

It takes him a minute to realize he’s stopped in his tracks, sucking in deep breaths that sound thunderous in the small confines of his mask. He can’t remember any instances in which he has felt claustrophobic in it, but there’s a first for everything, he supposes. Peter’s just glad they can’t see his face through the mask, with as pale and afflicted it must look.

Peter exhales shakily. “Sorry… sorry, I’m good.”

Rocket looks at him skeptically, and for a second Peter is afraid he’ll bring up their promise. He’s surprised when Rocket chooses to accept Peter’s response for what it is, probably knowing full well that it is not the appropriate time or place for that kind of conversation. 

“Okay. Let’s just keep going then. Compound should only be a little bit farther now,” Rocket says.

Peter nods and they begin to walk towards the base again. Rocket sighs after a minute of silence and looks up at Peter. “No one’s judging you for needing to breathe, Quill. Just keep your mask on.”

Peter nods and chooses to remain silent. There’s no telling what will and won’t set him off anymore, so it will probably be better for everyone if he keeps his damn mouth shut for once.

The tracker in Rocket’s hands blinks faster as they approach one of the only sound structures left on the surface of the planet. It’s a large, warehouse style compound, suitable for the sketchy business that undoubtedly occurs inside its walls. Rocket tucks the device into his pack and slings a large stun gun into his hands from where it previously rested over his shoulder.

“There should be no more than six or so supporters in here, right? We should split up, cover more ground that way,” Peter says.

“Right. Nova Prime said there shouldn’t be any more than that,” Rocket answers. “Drax, Groot, and Thor come with me through the front. Nebula and Mantis go with Quill through the back entrance.”

Peter catches his inner lip in between his teeth and holds it there, not quite biting. He sucks in another whirring breath. “If you’re going to go through the front you’re gonna need Mantis. Stun guns will only do so much and you might run into a majority of the supporters going in that way.”

The team set the fundamentals of a plan before landing, but Peter did some research of his own. Nova Corps’ overview readings of the base reported that a majority of the heat signatures recorded typically reside in the furthermost rooms of the warehouse. The back. He has an idea that’s just a small shift in the original plan, but it won’t work if Mantis is there to (subdue? hinder? stop?) _ knock _ _ him out__. _

Nebula cocks her head and glares at him, disbelieving. He expects her to say something but she doesn’t. She continues to survey his obstructed face, as if the red lights of his mask will flicker or otherwise reveal his bluff.

Rocket, however, remains oblivious. “Fine, whatever. Mantis you’re with us. Drax you’re with them.”

Peter grabs his favorite blaster from his belt and stares down at it. It disgusts him now, to be honest. Holding it in his hands feels like the worst thing he could be doing. It, like him, has done so many horrible things. With a sigh, he toggles it over to the stun setting and holsters it.

He catches Nebula eyeing him as he does this. She looks him up and down before looking back over towards the blaster.

“What?” Peter turns toward her and cocks his brow. It’s pointless, he realizes, because she couldn’t have seen that through his mask. He’s busy sorting through all the various ways he can appear as casual as possible when she speaks again.

“What are you planning, Quill?” she snaps, but grants him the decency of keeping her voice down and out of the earshot of the other Guardians.

Peter stills and points at himself. “Me? I’m not planning anything. I’m following the plan, _ our _ plan.” He takes his blaster back out despite the actual, physical pain that pangs in his chest at the action. He chokes a little on his words. “Let us know how many you find Rocket,” he says as he motions for Nebula and Drax to follow him around the back.

Nebula scoffs and drops the conversation, much to the gratitude of Peter. Drax seems just about as oblivious as Rocket was, fiddling with the stun gun in his hands and frowning with discontent. His knives are sheathed and Peter’s sure that’s the main reason he appears to be so uneasy.

The back entrance appears to be sealed up for maximum security. Peter scouts the area for any supporters before he backs up. “Ready to blow this place up?” He laughs a smidge too hysterically before yanking the explosive from his pocket. Rocket should be doing the same thing on the other side, so they have to time it just right. 

He slaps the sticky side of the bomb onto the door and takes several large steps back. He taps the comm beside his ear and waits for Rocket’s signal.

A few beats pass before, “Bombs away, Quill.”

Peter presses the detonator, one arm signaling for Nebula and Drax to remain behind him. 

The explosive implodes and the door bursts down in a cloud of smoke and ash. The metal contorts and twists as it tears apart.

_ Ash. His limbs turning into embers of fire and dust. _

Peter runs forward and tightens his grip around his blaster. Behind the door, he can make out one unmoving body in the rubble. A security guard. The first casualty.

_ 5 more. _

“Damn it!” Nebula yells when she sees the corpse. “One down, Rocket,” she says into her comm.

Rocket groans over his comm. “Got it. No dickwads over here, Quill. Thought you said they’d be up front.”

Peter doesn’t answer, instead turning a corner and peering behind the wall. A group of three men and two women congregate in a defensive stance, blades out. Nebula crouches down beside him and eyes him again. “Quill,” she hisses. “What are you doing?”

Peter looks over at her before he switches his blaster back to its normal setting. She grabs his wrist and tries to yank him back.

“Let go! That’s all of them, and they know we’re here,” Peter hisses back.

Nebula grumbles something under her breath before jumping behind the corner and shooting five stun blasts. The bodies crumble to the floor in a twitching heap.

Peter strides over to the bodies and stands over them, his blaster shaking in his hands as he levels it over their heads.

“Quill. Don’t.” Nebula demands. She stands on the other side of the supporters, not making any sudden moves to stop him. Peter wonders if part of her secretly wishes to do the same.

“Who gives a shit what Nova Prime says. Don’t tell me these fuckers don’t deserve to die,” Peter barks, sending a boot to the side of one of their heads. The man groans before another jolt of electricity silences him.

Nebula snickers slightly before sobering her expression. “Nova Prime will not pay us if they do not return in one piece.”

“Oh really? Whatever happened to _ ‘we have enough units to spare’_, huh?” Peter asks as Drax approaches the scene.

“What is this?” Drax questions, lowering his stun gun in confusion. Neither Nebula nor Peter answer him.

Something clicks in Nebula’s gaze. It’s not quite acceptance, but Peter knows that she won’t stop him. He fires up his blaster and prepares to shoot the first unconscious supporter. It’s a Krylorian man, from the looks of it. 

“Quill!” Rocket shouts as he approaches the three of them standing over the heap of unmoving bodies. Peter sighs, deja vu ringing in his ears. “What the _ flark _ are you doing?”

“Justice.” Peter retorts. The word feels a little gimmicky when he says it, a bit cliche, but it’s the truth. If no one is willing to do anything about this, he will.

_ “Justice?” _Rocket laughs despite the situation. “Quill. We’re talking about our trust with Nova Prime right now, y’know, the lady who gives us jobs? The jobs that keep us alive?”

“We can find work somewhere else,” Peter says, keeping his focus on the man as he jerks with the residual shocks. Every move he makes Peter want to kick him in the ribs.

“You’re not a killer, Pete.” Rocket pleads. Peter nearly laughs at that. He _ should _ laugh at that. None of them have clean records. They each have their own individual body counts. 

Besides, this is mercy. Shooting them while unconscious and taking them out of their pathetic existence is just about the most merciful thing Peter can do. That isn't even what they deserve. They deserve a whole lot worse than what Peter is about to give them.

“Their deaths aren’t going to magically make everything okay again. It’s not going to bring her back,” Rocket continues.

He knows that. Of course, _ of course _ he knows that. That is the whole point. Gamora is gone. She’s really gone and there is nothing he can do to change that. He thought they could beat Thanos but they couldn’t and now, even though he’s dead, his mindset gets to live on in these scum of the Universe. 

“Isn’t that exactly why they deserve to die? Why do they get to live, and… and Gamora _ doesn’t?” _ Peter’s blaster wobbles slightly as his hand trembles. “Why do shitty people get to live and the good ones die? Why am… Why do I get to—”

_ Why does he get to live? He doesn’t deserve to. It should have been him. He should have gone left and she should have gone right. _

_ I told you to go right. I told you— _

“It doesn’t make sense. It isn’t fair, Rocket.” The sting of tears bites at him and he bites back, refusing to block his view of this. He’s finding that he wants to watch them die. Thanos watched Gamora die. Now, Peter gets to watch his minions tremble and shake pathetically as they prepare to burn in hell.

“I know it isn’t.” Rocket says. “It’s fucked up and wrong but it’s the way things are. But we… we can still be good, right? We can be good and show the flarkin’ Universe that we belong here.” Peter looks over at Rocket, unable to unsee the tears matting his fur. It’s no shocker that Rocket shares the same survivor’s guilt as him, having been left behind while his family was dusted away years ago. “Let’s just turn these assholes in and move on with our lives, Quill. This isn’t what Gamora would have wanted.”

That sentence is what convinces him to lower his blaster.

He’s right. Gamora would have hated this. She would have hated to see what he is turning into.

“Good.” Rocket swipes an arm across his face and clears his throat. “Come on, Mantis. Let’s make sure they’re good and out before we lock em up in the Benatar.”

Peter hears a muffled feminine grunt before a sharp pain shoots up his lower leg. He manages to catch sight of the woman, her hand clutching a freshly bloodied dagger.

The pain in his leg goes unregistered as he darts his blaster over to her.

“That traitorous bitch deserved to die,” she says, her voice shrill and grating in his ears.

He shoots.

She slumps back down to the floor in a heap, her blade clattering down beside her. Peter stumbles back and for a second all he can see is Gamora’s face, Thanos holding her from behind as he levels his blaster and shoots and she crumbles to the floor just like the body in front of him now and—

“Quill!” A voice says beside him. His vision fades in and out, and _ god he’s gonna freak out right here, right now and… _ “Quill, let’s move!” The owner of the voice yells in his ear and pulls at his wrist with excessive force.

He comes back to himself enough to identify the sound of rapid blaster fire. Somehow, he’s missed the arrival of several large groups of supporters. There has to be upwards of twenty to thirty men. There’s no way they can stun them all, no way they can really bring them all back to Xandar themselves.

The hand he now knows to belong to Nebula yanks him behind a wall, the rest of the Guardians filing in behind them.

“What the _flarking hell!”_ Rocket yells. “Where did these guys come from?”

“I am _ Groot. _”

“No shit! That’s gotta be like five times the amount we thought we’d be dealing with.”

“The others were bait. They had to have prepared for this. They caught us off guard,” Thor says, running a palm down his face.

Drax bellows a laugh as he shoots his blaster an indeterminate number of times, somehow accurately hitting a decent amount of approaching men. Thor and Mantis begin to do the same, firing blasts and allowing them some time to regroup. Mantis hits a few as her stray blasts fling from wall to wall.

“What’s the damage?” Rocket asks, nodding over at Peter’s leg.

It hurts. Pretty badly. But he’ll live.

“It’s fine. I can still walk.” Peter peels back the ripped shred of his pant leg to assess the wound. It’s a large gash down his lower leg. Luckily, the rivulets of blood seeping from the cut drip slow enough that he’s not in imminent danger of bleeding out.

Rocket sighs and nods. “Never should’ve taken this mission.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter says, his voice cracking. And he is. _ Sorry, _ anyway. They should just leave him to die on this godforsaken planet. He doesn’t know what he was thinking, going on this mission.

Well, he _ was _ thinking that he’d run in here and fire off six lethal blasts before Mantis or any of the others had a chance to stop him. Ever since Nova Prime’s call, he’s been carrying a thirst for blood that demands to be quenched. Now, he just feels useless. He got them into this mess and now there is a whole building full of Thanos supporters they’re going to have to fight.

He should’ve known he wouldn’t be able to handle it. He should’ve known he would crack under the pressure.

“I was planning on killing all of them this whole time. I— I decided not to… when you talked me down, but then she… She just—”

Rocket shrugs. “Self-defense,” he says, and Peter knows he’s glossing over it to make Peter feel less shitty about the situation he’s gotten them into. He doesn’t deserve them. They’re too good to him. 

“Well, guess we’re gonna have to kill these a-holes before they kill us anyway. No sense knocking them all out now.” Rocket says, his lip curling. “It’s your lucky day, Quill.”

Peter thinks that if this is the definition of his lucky days now, he should just quit while he’s ahead.

He sighs and peers over the wall, which has cracked a significant amount with the number of blasts it’s received. They’re going to have to come out and start fighting before their makeshift barricade comes crashing down.

Nebula scans him again, and Peter wonders what she has gathered in all of her analyses of him on this mission. She’s probably realizing that he’s more messed up than he let on. She grimaces before jumping up and letting her blaster speak for itself.

Peter jumps up too, wincing at the protest that his injured leg cries out. He bites his lip and focuses on that pain instead.

He follows Nebula as they run around the side of the warehouse. He picks up on the rounds he shoots off, doubling the amount and smiling as each body hits the floor. Nebula does the same beside him. She’s good with a gun, but it’s nothing compared to what he has seen her do with a sword; especially the cool, energy one he’s seen her use on multiple occasions.

Nebula and Gamora have both wielded their swords in a way that leaves Peter in silent awe and captivation. It has always made his clunky blasters and rocket boots feel pathetic in comparison.

Rocket boots. _ Duh. _ Why didn’t he think of it before?

He activates them and hovers a few feet off the ground, dodging blasts as he uses the higher elevation to take out a few more of the supporters from overhead. Using the boots keeps the pressure off his leg too, which feels _ amazing. _ He chuckles a little as he continues to rapidly fire at the mass of a-holes still shooting at them.

Somewhere off to Peter’s left, Thor strikes a few men with his hammer. Peter’s pretty sure he could just light the whole warehouse up and take them all out, but probably not without taking them _ all _out, Guardians included. He uses a bit of restraint when wielding his power. Mantis on the other hand uses her powers to their full capabilities. She places a hand on one of the supporters beside her, sending the woman running towards her fellow supporters, yelling out a battle cry as she begins attacking her own side. 

Peter smiles at the two of them before he spots a ray barreling towards him. He moves out of the way at the last second, not before a stray blast smacks into the side of his helmet with a resounding metallic ding.

The next thing Peter’s aware of is an incessant ringing in his ears. 

A steady trickle drips down the side of his face as he pushes himself up from his position on the floor. The smooth ground is frigid beneath his fingertips, and he locks out his elbows to keep his upper body off of the concrete.

His blaster is out of his hands, strewn across the ground yards away. Peter is disoriented, the kind of confusion that comes with most concussive blasts that hit him in the head.

He doesn’t get the chance to ponder how it is that he’s still alive, because his luck promptly runs out. 

Peter is currently surrounded by a group of Thanos supporters.

Oh, and his mask is busted. It smokes and sputters from where it sits on the warehouse floor, dented and entirely caved in.

Peter is hit by his second wind once he realizes the situation that he’s in. He’s finding that, while he was content with being left to die on this planet moments ago, there is no way he’s going to go at the hands of these monsters.

He bolts up as quick as he is able, his hand finding the hilt of Godslayer as if on instinct. He brandishes it reverently, swinging it and reveling in the sound of its clean slices.

Peter doesn’t know if it is instinct or, rather, a burst of adrenaline that makes Godslayer feel so natural and innate in his grasp. He squeezes his hand around its hilt, imagining Gamora’s slender fingers wrapped around the same spot, and jabs the blade into one of the men charging at him.

Yep, something about it is definitely instinctive. He doesn’t register any of his immediate surroundings, focusing only on the way the sharp blade sends more and more bodies to the floor, the crowd around him diminishing in size.

There’s someone to his right; someone who moves quick and, with a snap of their wrist, flashes a full-length electrified sword. He cracks a small grin but doesn’t let up on his attacks, slicing away at a Kree man instead.

His vision is spotty and dark, a blurry film appearing in his peripherals. The adrenaline must be decreasing in his body because everything about him feels lethargic, down to the way he swings the sword and to the movements of his head. A deep wave of nausea crashes over him. Peter’s not sure whether that can be attributed to his probable concussion or to the lack of available oxygen.

The rest of his team is handling the remaining supporters, he knows, because he can make out a few distinctive war cries and the rapid onslaught of gunfire and Drax’s dagger attacks. He lets his sword-wielding arm drop to his side for a moment, needing to rest it after holding it up for so long.

_ He’s so tired. Maybe he’ll just take a second to _ _ ... _

“Quill!” A voice yells out and he startles back to awareness. He focuses enough to witness a figure inches from his face drop bonelessly to the floor, Nebula revealing herself from behind them as she yanks her blade out with a sickening pop.

“Your lips are blue,” she says simply, as if pointing out the weather or something just as banal. Nebula scrutinizes his facial features before turning to stab an approaching enemy.

Peter nods and regrets the action instantly. His stomach turns in on itself and his first impulse is to suck in a deep breath of air. His lungs fill up; however, it is unsatisfying. His chest burns with desperate need. He feels his cheeks flush red, impossibly hot in the frigid temperature of the building. Peter wheezes despite his restraint, his heartbeat picking up with the panic of the situation.

Nebula fights off the remaining adversaries around her, stationing herself beside him as she fights for the both of them. “Rocket!” she yells. “We need your help over here!”

The statement surprises Peter a little bit. The Nebula he knew five years ago would have never admitted to needing help from _ anyone, _especially not from one of them. He remembers her being like Gamora was at first, afraid to accept help from other people and afraid to admit to any weaknesses.

Peter’s vision fades in and out. Rocket yells something but Peter is far too gone to hear it over the sound of absolute chaos buzzing in his ears. He sways a little on his feet, but stumbles forward just as he’s about to fall sideways.

He senses claws scratching all the way up his side before he feels the telltale sign of Rocket on his shoulder. The raccoon smacks the side of his face, startling him and forcing him to center himself. “You better stay conscious Shit-Lord, can’t have you passing out in the middle of all this,” he says with anxiety in his tone. Rocket points to a large wall of crates. “Think you can get us over there?”

Peter nods once he’s sure his nausea has quelled itself enough and attempts to stumble across the building, sheathing Godslayer by his belt in the process. Rocket is heavy on his shoulder, and his blaster fire jolts Peter as he walks, but his presence somehow gives him the motivation to keep moving.

Once Peter reaches the wall of crates his knees buckle beneath him and he crashes to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut off. Rocket is by his side in an instant, rolling him onto his back with great effort. He slaps his cheek a few times and shakes at his shoulders.

“Don’t pass out,” he says, wide-eyed and out of his element. He taps his commlink and shouts, “Thor? _ Thor, _ do you copy?”

Peter is zoned out when the Asgardian’s reply knocks him back into awareness. “I copy. We’re almost finished out here, rabbit. Just a few stubborn ones left.” Thor’s voice is breezy and relaxed, at ease with his skills. Rocket pulls at his fur in frustration.

“Yeah, quick question. Think you can fly the Benatar?” Rocket asks, his voice tightening and signaling that he’s nearing his limit of stress for the day.

Thor lets out a deep laugh. “Of course I can,” he says. There is nothing but silence for a moment. “You mean right now?”

“Yes, right now!” Rocket yells. “They’ll be fine without you, but I don’t know how much longer Quill can last out here. I need you to go run and pull it around back as soon as ya can,” he says.

Thor says something else but it feels too far away. It’s a response in the affirmative, but his exact words are lost on Peter.

A small hand hits his face and Peter realizes that his eyes have slipped shut again. “Stay awake, Quill.”

“Trying.” Peter hyperventilates, sucking in as many breaths as he can, hoping at least one of the inhalations will ease the fire in his chest.

“Try harder,” Rocket mutters before addressing his comm once more. “Nebs… Can you hear me?”

Peter stares up at the ceiling, eyeing the beams and light fixtures flickering overhead. The whole picture blurs together, becoming almost peaceful. It’s the calmest he’s felt since he’s gotten back, even with the frantic nature of his pulse and inhalations.

He tilts his head over to the left, enjoying the way his flushed cheek cools against the floor.

His eyes flutter open again and greet the figure lying beside him. She smiles with slight melancholy in her gaze, moving to cup his cheek with one palm, tracing his cheekbone with the pad of her thumb.

His heart could stop right then and there and he’d be fine with it, because she’s here. _ She’s really here. _

“Mora?” he whispers, attempting to reach out to her. His arm flops uselessly at his side, nothing but deadweight that he’s unable to lift in this state.

Rocket’s head pops up at that. “Quill?”

Peter smiles and laughs giddily. “I missed you.”

Rocket scurries over to face him, crouching by Peter’s face and waving his hand in Peter’s range of view. “Quill, you with me?” Peter ignores the frantic raccoon and continues to stare at Gamora. 

She’s as beautiful as ever, somehow even more beautiful in the low-light pouring down on them. 

“Ah, hell, Pete. C’mon man, it’s… you’re hallucinating.”

Peter turns his head towards Rocket and laughs again. “She’s here, Rocket. She’s back,” he says right before erupting into a fit of coughs and wheezes.

Rocket hisses and hops onto his chest. Peter follows him with his gaze. “You need more oxygen, _ now_,” he snaps in anger, pulling at his fur again. He yells something indistinguishable into his comm again. 

“Just hold o….. Benatar’s coming….” Rocket’s voice fades in and out, along with the flickering light overhead. Another body drops to his side and grabs his wrist. He catches sight of Mantis sitting over him, her antenna glowing with a consistent light. She yells out a string of words and the light radiating from the top of her head increases in intensity.

He’s granted a small burst of energy that does little but increase the rate in which he sucks in air, ragged wheezes escaping him as a result. He’s so tired. He can’t do anything but let his head flop sideways towards Gamora.

She’s the last thing he sees before he blacks out.

* * *

“Wake up, Quill. We needa make sure ya didn't go brain dead on us.”

Peter can barely think with the current pounding residing within his skull. His entire body feels like it’s been run over, and his head feels like someone's taken a sledgehammer and bashed it into a wall.

The voice speaking to him is doing him no favors, only serving to worsen his headache and leaving him dizzier than he ever thought a person could be.

He briefly considers opening his eyes and listening to the person just so they’ll shut up, but that choice is quickly made for him.

A hand pries open one of his eyes and suddenly a bright light attacks his retina. He jolts his other eye open and attempts to push himself up and away from the assault.

“Quill. Relax,” Rocket says, turning off the light for a moment. He furrows his brow as he looks at him. Peter relaxes his arms and allows his upper body to be supported by his bent elbows.

Peter would curse and yell at Rocket for the attack on his retinas if it weren't for the bulky oxygen mask strapped around his mouth and nose. 

He reaches up to remove it, but is stopped by a small hand smacking his wrist. “Keep that on!” Rocket yells. 

Nebula pushes herself off the wall she’s leaning on and strides over to the table. She rips the light out of Rocket’s hands and flicks it on once it’s secure in her grasp.

Peter flinches back and she snarls. “Do you wish to die, Quill? We need to make sure the lack of oxygen and blast to your skull did not severely impair you.” Nebula says, her bedside manner leaving something to be desired.

“Don't ask 'im that. I’m afraid we’re not gonna like his answer, seein’ as he’s always tryna die on us,” Rocket mumbles with an eye roll. There’s still a slight fidget in the way he pulls at a loose thread on the blanket.

Peter frowns and allows himself to sit up without immediately backing away from the two. He knows what this is, has done it a million times before when he’s taken hits to the head. It doesn't mean it ever gets particularly easier though, somehow always managing to make his skull pound a bazillion times worse.

“Follow the light,” Nebula says as a blinding glare overtakes his senses. He blinks rapidly until the pain lessens, and then follows the light as it travels across his line of vision.

Nebula huffs after a few moments of that and lowers the light. “You are fine. Your thick skull saved your life,” she says bluntly.

Peter reaches up again to take off the mask except this time no one stops him. He keeps it in his left hand in case the shortness of breath returns.

“How long have I been out?” he rasps, his throat dry and brittle. Rocket cringes and tosses a small water bottle towards his open hand.

His concussion speaks for itself when the bottle misses his hand and falls to his lap. Peter stares at it a moment before picking it up and taking a large swig.

“Few hours,” Rocket says. “Long enough that we were gonna have to take your ass to Xandar if you didn't wake soon.”

The reminder of Xandar makes Peter wince. “Did we… _ uh, _ does Nova Prime know?” he asks. He runs a hand down his face and his fingertips are greeted by a medium-sized bandage which takes up a good portion of forehead space.

“She knows that we went in there unprepared thinkin’ we were gonna be handling six instead of five times that. She knows that we did what we had’ta do and didn't make it out unscathed,” Rocket says, gesturing at Peter.

“Wait.” Peter frowns, suddenly confused. “So we’re still getting paid?”

Rocket nods. “Good thing too. I woulda’ve raised hell if she tried pulling something like that on us.”

Nebula scoffs in agreement. “You would think a professional in her position would have made sure she had all of the correct details before making us do her work for her.” She quirks her brow in such a similar manner as Gamora that a knot ties in Peter’s throat. “Do the Nova Corps do anything on their own or do they simply have us on speed dial for all instances except petty theft?”

Rocket's response is drowned out in Peter’s ears as a wave of panic rushes over him. He notices the absence of his belt, specifically the sword that was once sheathed there. His head spins as he tries to remember if he managed to sheath it after all.

“Where is it?” he croaks out, unfazed by the confusion that appears on their faces as their conversation screeches to a halt.

It’s Rocket that speaks first. “Where’s what?”

The unadulterated panic that consumes him at the thought of having lost the one possession that Gamora cherished most is enough to run his blood cold. He can feel his eyes widen at the thought of it as he drops the oxygen mask to run his hand through his hair. “Where is it?” he says again.

Nebula looks at him with the same inspecting stare she had been giving him throughout the entirety of the mission. “It is in your quarters,” she says, knowing exactly what it is that he’s looking for.

Rocket remains confused. “What is?”

Peter sighs with relief and closes his eyes for a second. He enjoys the way the darkness eases some of the throbbing in his temples. He opens them back up when Nebula begins to speak.

“It saved your life. You would not have been able to fight off the supporters without it,” Nebula contemplates. There’s an underlying question in her statement too, _ why did he bring it, _ she wants to know. He isn't going to spell it out and answer her unspoken question for her like he did Gamora. 

Peter shrugs. Rocket looks back and forth between the two of them with silent confusion. The silence doesn't last long however.

“Would either one of you like to include me in whatever secret mind-reading thing you’ve got goin’ on?” Rocket exhales in frustration. 

“Godslayer,” Nebula says simply. “Why did you bring it?” She finally voices her question out loud.

“Do you really need me to answer that?” Peter says. It’s obvious, really. He didn't think he would need to say it.

Peter is used to being vulnerable in front of his team, but this is crossing a new line, he thinks. There’s an odd, suffocating vulnerability that comes with explaining this particular action of his. 

Nebula surveys him again. He doesn't know what she finds, but she drops her previous question. “I was surprised you did not dismember yourself with it by mistake.”

The part of him that wants to be offended by such an accusation disappears once he is able to see behind it.

_ “Relax, Peter. Nebula likes you. I swear,” Gamora says as he sections off her hair before he begins braiding it. _

_ “Doesn't feel like it,” Peter bristles. He’s mostly upset because Nebula is interfering with the whole ‘befriend my future girlfriend’s family and create my own’ fantasy he’s had since he was a kid. Being a child alone in space with no real family meant that he was pretty much always destined to marry into one if that’s what he wanted. _

_ Thanos took that little dream of his and crushed it into a million pieces. _

_ It’s okay now, of course, because the rest of the Guardians are his family in this scenario. But would the Universe cripple if Nebula and him could at least get along? _

_ “She does. Nebula’s just… not the best at giving compliments.” Gamora hesitates. _

_ Peter sighs as he begins the braid, feeling her relax into his touch. This little ritual of theirs has always calmed both of them down. “I can tell,” he says. _

_ “She insults the people that she likes,” she explains, “and ignores or maims the people that she doesn't.” _

_ Peter makes a face at that but continues the braid. “Oh goodie. So Nebula constantly reminds me of how weak and useless I am, but at least she hasn't maimed me yet,” Peter deadpans. _

_ Gamora turns around and Peter yelps in complaint as the braid comes undone in his hands. “You are not weak or useless, Peter,” she says with gravity. “And Nebula does not hate you. OK?” She watches his expression, determined to get him to understand. _

It still takes him a while to catch her backhanded compliments, but when he does, they are painstakingly obvious. Anyone who hadn't been forced to analyze Nebula’s speech for four years would be reluctant to take what she said as a compliment, but not him. He was trained by the best known Nebula whisperer.

Even though Nebula’s not above insulting him when it’s warranted, he can see now that she’s subtly applauding the way that he utilized Godslayer without prior training.

“Thanks,” Peter replies dryly, taking on his familiar sarcastic tone.

It’s not enough to understand Nebula’s mannerisms. He’s learned how to respond to her throughout these years too. To let her know that he knows she’s complimenting him would be as big of a mistake as assuming she was insulting him all along.

“If you are going to continue to wield it, perhaps you should learn how to use it more efficiently,” she states.

Peter squints his eyes and tilts his head. “Sorry, is it just the concussion or are you offering to teach me how to fight?” He’s sure that is what she’s implying, but even his knowledge of Nebula is limited. Sometimes it can be hard to know for certain with her.

Nebula scoffs. “I am offering to show you how to use a weapon you have no experience using, before you destroy both it and yourself.”

He should be scared, really. Every last, dying piece of him that gives a shit about his safety is begging him not to take her up on her offer. He should say no, if he cares about his well-being.

Peter nods rapidly, ignoring the vertigo and nausea that threatens to overtake him. “Okay. Yes. Show me.”

Self-preservation has never been his thing anyway.

Rocket slaps a hand over his face and groans into it. “You two are going to be the death of me,” he mutters.

* * *

Peter’s been sitting in the chair in their — _ his _quarters for the past few hours.

The bed is unmade from the last time he was in it, though he doesn't remember having gotten any sleep that time either. 

Gamora’s side of the bed remains untouched. He can’t sleep on that side, can hardly even _ look _ at it anymore. All it does is remind him of what he has lost. It reminds him that he will have nothing but an empty bed for the rest of his pathetic, miserable life. An empty bed and an empty heart. Poetic, almost.

He’s not in bed now, not only because he knows he won’t be able to get much sleep anyway, but also because of the guilt settling in his stomach. The remorse that he’s feeling tells him that he does not deserve to sleep in their bed. Actually, it’s telling him that he doesn’t deserve to sleep, period, but that doesn’t seem to be an issue whichever way he looks at it.

It sounds crazy, he’s aware, to believe that one is unworthy of a _ bed. _ It’s more than that though. It’s more than a bed. It’s where they spent a portion of their lives together. It’s where they shared their first kiss, where they discussed their unspoken thing in depth for the first time, where they made love, where they cried on each other's shoulders, where they said their first I love you’s, where they unleashed their inner demons in the latest and earliest hours of each day cycle.

Their bed was never just a bed. It’s where they grew, where they loved, where they laughed. It’s holy, almost. Their bed is a shrine that commemorates the story of their love.

It’s full of good, breathtaking memories. It is too pure, too untainted to be dirtied by the heft of his misdeeds.

Guilt is as prominent of a feeling as the grief is. They’re intertwined, so eerily similar that he isn’t able to see where one emotion ends and where one begins. It’s like that symbol he always used to see on Earth; the one with the dark within the light and the light within the dark. That’s as good of a representation of his emotions as there is.

Or maybe, the light within his darkness is Gamora. It’s confusing, because her absence is the cause of his darkness, but his memory of her is the tiny orb of light left within him.

Peter sighs. He’s getting all philosophical again. He needs a fucking drink.

Peter stands up and sways only slightly when he stands, the black dots dancing in his vision clearing quicker than usual. 

He stumbles out of his room with more stability than he expected, what with the concussion and fatigue that is consuming him. Peter pushes open the door and is greeted by a familiar face.

“I am _ Groot._”

Peter smiles weakly and pats the top of the tree’s head. He knows he has been distant lately, and hopes that Groot doesn’t hate him for it. Groot has a plethora of stand-in parents on the ship, but Gamora and Peter have always tended to treat him as they would their own child.

Peter’s throat constricts once the realization that _ they _ will never be able to have kids of their own settles. It was never something they discussed much before, but now it will never happen.

He’s almost one-hundred percent positive that he would have been a shitty father anyway. He never had the greatest role model; neither one of them had, in fact. Also, Peter’s one and only chance at a son is standing right in front of him, serving as a reminder of how much he has failed to be a good captain, a good _ dad. _

“You can tell Rocket he can stop sending you in here, bud,” Peter says softly. “I’m not sleeping anyway.”

He’s not sure whether it was Rocket, but someone has been sending Groot into his quarters once every two hours with the order to wake Peter up on account of his concussion and all.

“I am Groot.”

“You don’t have to be worried. I’m fine. ‘M not tired anyway,” Peter lies through his teeth.

Groot shrinks away at that. “I _ am _ Groot,” he says, looking downwards.

Peter’s not trying to brag or anything, (really, he’s not; knowing the language of his own kid is like the bare minimum of parenthood) but he has become extremely familiar with Groot’s language since he met… bigger Groot? Groot’s biological dad?

God. He hasn’t thought about bigger Groot in _ way _ too long.

Another thing to beat himself up about. Peter really is the biggest asshole that has ever existed, isn’t he?

_ Stars. _ Where was he?

Right. Peter has been able to pick up on the intricacies of Groot’s language for quite some time. He can decipher perhaps more from his inflection than Groot intends to at times, can sense his emotions fairly well.

So he knows that Groot’s assertion of _ “I’m not worried,” _ is probably just a reflection of his unwillingness to show ‘child-like’ emotions at his age. Still, it hurts more than Peter would like to admit. He’s afraid that he might be wrong after-all, that maybe Groot has grown to hate him and all of his failures.

Peter gulps and runs his hand down his neck. “Course not,” he says as casually as possible. “Nothing to be worried about anyway.”

Groot nods and looks up at him for a moment. Peter notices the absence of his game in his hands, but has no clue how to take that, or what that means for the teenager’s mental state. He wants to comment on it; he stays silent instead.

Without another word, Groot runs off again, presumably planning on returning in another two hours despite all of Peter’s protests. He sighs and closes the door to his quarters as he steps into the hallway. The ship is eerily silent and Peter once again is clueless as to what part of the day cycle it is.

He makes his way down the hallway with one hand trailing against the leftmost wall. The cool metal of the Benatar pierces the tips of his fingers as he pulls his hand along. At least the sensation allows him to feel solid, a necessary feeling since he’s always expecting to revert back into a pile of ashes. 

Peter almost forgets why he came out here in the first place, until the mess of emotions in his head reminds him of the bliss that only a glass of liquor could provide. 

Peter’s not an alcoholic. He knows what one looks like. Life with the Ravagers meant that he was always bound to have an encounter with an alcoholic at least once a day. No, Peter’s not one. He can handle his alcohol and definitely knows when to say no to a glass. 

So, maybe he’s been saying no a little less than usual. That’s his goddamn right, given his rapidly declining quality of life.

Peter throws open the cabinet drawers and eyes the contents of the space. A myriad of empty bottles lie haphazardly across the bottom, spirits that Peter has shared with Rocket if not consumed by himself.

Peter bites his inner lip following an exaggerated inhale. Their alcohol cabinet has been wiped dry, and apparently none of them have thought to restock their supplies. That’s on him, probably. He doesn't have it in him to blame anyone else.

Peter’s head snaps towards a consistent smacking noise coming from their communal gym. His vision blurs from the rapidness of his movement, but he still watches the door to the room as he hones in on the sound. It continues, an intense punching that refuses to cease.

Peter shuts the cabinet and turns back towards the noise. He walks over to the room with purposeful strides, hesitating briefly when he reaches the gym. Up close, Peter can hear guttural grunts and the creaky swinging of their punching bag. He knows the gym’s lone occupant has to be Nebula, the only one of them that would even consider exercising at whatever early or late hour of the cycle it is. He also knows that Gamora and Nebula both have never considered exercise to be a burden. Instead, it serves as a release of tension, an imperative routine for their body and soul.

_ Soul. Soul Stone. She’s still trapped there. You need to get her out. Hurry, before it’s too— _

Peter tenses and shakes that thought away. He takes the opportunity to push open the door while he’s not thinking about the immediate consequences of doing so.

He was correct. Nebula continues to beat the bag as he makes his way inside the gym, not even breaking a sweat as she does so. Peter doesn't even know if it’s possible for her to sweat anymore.

“You want to know how I always know it is you before you enter a room, Quill?” Nebula says, not averting her gaze from the swinging bag. It looks as if it’s about to fly right off of its chain.

“Uh, how?” Peter says, though he knows he is not going to appreciate the answer.

Nebula assaults the bag with more force before she speaks again. “The sound of your heartbeat resembles that of a startled Orloni these days.” She shrugs, as if she didn't just call him the equivalent of a space rat right to his face.

“Gee thanks,” Peter says, turning and looking at himself in the mirrored wall of their gym. He’s looking more worn than he expected to look, dark circles caving what appears to be purple holes beneath his eyes. He looks thinner too. He thinks maybe he should be glad for that, at least the others won’t make jokes about it anymore, but he’s not. It’s not like anyone has been cracking jokes around him recently. They’ve been treating him like he’s made out of glass.

He might be though. He’s pale and weak and he looks like he is withering away. Maybe they're right to treat him like he’s falling apart.

“What do you want?” She speaks up, aware that it takes more than a quiet whisper to snap him out of his thoughts nowadays.

“Do I have to want something to hang out with you?” Peter says, trying to lighten his tone of voice as he turns to face her instead of his reflection.

Nebula huffs and Peter wonders if her form of exercise is tiring her out in the slightest. “Yes. Though I suppose it is possible you are starved of company. You are not used to being alone for this long,” Nebula muses.

“That’s—” Peter sputters. “I’ve been alone before!”

Nebula quiets as she attacks the bag, sending precise punches to the upper portion of it, suspiciously aimed where a tall figure’s face would be located. Peter's not stupid. He knows who she is pretending to fight.

Maybe she’ll let him throw in a few punches.

“I saw your face when you were using Godslayer to kill those supporters.”

Peter stills, watching as she continues to pound on the swinging bag. He’s not sure how she expects him to respond, whether there is a question hidden in there that he’s too tired and concussed to decipher.

“And?” he says.

Nebula sends one deadly punch upwards before she steps back and allows the bag to fling from side to side. She turns towards him for the first time and scans him.

“You liked it,” Nebula states with such certainty that he’d be afraid to deny it. “You wanted them to die. You enjoyed killing them.”

Peter is taken aback, unsure of what she’s accusing him of but knowing that there is an accusation in there somewhere. “What are you asking me here?”

Nebula shakes her head. “Not asking. Telling.” She steps forward. “You brought Godslayer because there is symbolism in it for you. You are enamored with the idea of avenging Gamora with her own sword, doing what she cannot.” Nebula’s face contorts slightly. “You have always been oddly sentimental like that.”

Peter doesn't answer, instead staring at her with his jaw slacked in surprise. He can count the number of times he has been stricken for words on one hand, and this time is definitely one of them.

“Except there is no one you can kill that will truly satisfy your lust for blood,” Nebula deadpans. “Gamora has already been avenged. Thanos is dead.”

Nebula pauses, and this time Peter is sure she has surveyed him so much by now that she understands him better than he understands himself.

“But still you want revenge. You want someone to blame. Someone other than yourself.”

Peter agrees. “Stark avenged Gamora,” he says, his eyes stinging with fervor.

Nebula appears stricken by that but pushes it aside. “You wish that you had. You wish you could have taken Stark’s place.”

Peter hasn't thought about that in so many words, but as soon as she says it he knows that it’s exactly what he wants. He wishes he can go back in time and switch places with Stark. He wishes he can go back in time and do a lot of things differently.

“Yeah,” Peter says softly, knowing that speaking any louder will cause his voice to crack and that’s the last thing he wants to happen in front of Nebula. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

Nebula nods and looks off to the side. “We are not so different,” she says. “I am doing myself a real disservice comparing myself to you, so you better listen because I will not repeat myself.”

Peter nods, afraid to use his words.

“I used to think that my father’s death would bring me peace no matter whose hand committed the deed,” she mutters. “I no longer believe this. I should have known that nothing less than slaying him myself would have granted me satisfaction.”

Peter’s face pinches when a dull throb spikes in the back of his skull. “What makes us similar, exactly? You’re going to have to spell it out for me, my head is kind of pounding right now.”

Nebula sighs. “The point is, neither one of us is satisfied. We both need a way to dispense the rage and vengeance that we are carrying.”

He ponders this for a second. He doesn't know what it is that he wants to do, but strangely the thought of devoting his life to avenging hers does not strike him as the worst option.

“So what do you think we should do?” Peter asks. It’s clear that she’s proposing something to him right now, an offer that he is sure he will be unable to refuse.

“There are still a striking number of Thanos supporters in the galaxy,” she says, her lip snarling. “I think we could do our part in reducing that number.”

Peter can feel himself perk up at that. “So like… become vigilantes? Just me and you traveling around the galaxy killing supporters of Thanos?” He likes the way that sounds. “What about the others?”

“They will be fine. If I were you I would be more focused on what happens to you if you don't go.” A muscle in Nebula’s face twitches. 

“I’m that much of a mess, huh?” Peter drones, moving both hands to rub at his temples.

“You always have been. This is just a new extreme for you.”

Peter lets out a quick laugh and drops his arms. She’s right, _ of course _ she is. He is never going to get any better on the Benatar with nothing to do but remember the life he once had with Gamora. He doesn't think he’s going to get any better _ ever, _period, but at least this way he’s doing something with his pathetic existence. “When would we leave?” he asks.

Nebula scoffs and raises a brow. “We are not going anywhere until I know you can hold your own in a battle,” she says. “That means knowing your weapon in and out, before we even begin learning how to properly fight with it.”

She starts again. “We will train night and day. Once you are ready, we can leave on that old ship of yours.”

Peter falters. “The Milano is not old!” he says reflexively. Nebula glares at him and he sobers up. “Okay then. We’re actually doing this?”

Nebula rolls her eyes and starts for the door. “I would not bring up something I have no intention of carrying out,” she says with resolution. “I will see you here at the start of the new cycle. Do not be late.”

Peter nods quickly and ignores the nausea that turns in his stomach. It makes its home there along with the guilt and the grief and all the rest of his confusing emotions.

Nebula exits the gym and Peter turns back to face the mirrored wall.

He blanches a little at the reflection that’s staring back at him. Peter might hate himself now, but maybe after this whole thing he’ll see himself as less of a complete failure.

Maybe he’ll even be able to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, OK, you've got me. I wrote this whole thing just to write about Nebula and Peter fighting alongside each other as he wields Godslayer. Everyone can go home now, that will be all.
> 
> On a serious note though, if anyone who makes fan art would like to draw that I would one-hundred percent love to see it.
> 
> As always, please leave kudos, reviews, or drop in your favorite quotes! :))


	5. A Martyr's Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait guys! This chapter just refused to come out the way I planned and wanted it to. Hopefully the next chapter will have less of a wait.

Peter wipes Godslayer with one of the soft cloths Gamora always used. The blade is as clean as it will ever be, and yet Peter has made a habit out of cleaning the metal each night. He wouldn’t say it’s a _ calming _ ritual, with his mind as unpredictable as it has been recently, but he feels an indescribable closeless to her as he runs the cloth against the sharp edges.

Training with Nebula has been… intense, to say the least. She seems to forget that he is still a half-Terran with no modifications, his Celestial heritage doing little to aid him now that his immortality is gone (though that’s not a problem like _ at all _ — he’s so _ so _ grateful that he’s not going to live forever). 

Maybe she hasn’t forgotten per say, but she definitely does not care as to what his bodily limitations dictate is enough training.

He’s sore, for one thing; sorer than he thinks he’s ever been. Even the worst aches Peter remembers having ailed him in the past _ pale _ in comparison to the daily workouts, sparring, and literal sword fights he’s been subjected to for the past two weeks. He can't complain, he knows, because as much of a pain in the ass training with Nebula has been, he signed up for it.

There’s an odd feeling he gets as he spars with Nebula. It is partly the realization that this was Gamora and Nebula’s life each day growing up, only the stakes were much higher than what they are for Peter now.

The other part of it is the look that Nebula gets in her eyes whenever she bests him in combat. 

He knows what used to happen whenever Gamora beat her; it was often the cause of many of Gamora’s worst nightmares. She would wake up in a panicked fluster, screaming out protests and declarations of _ “leave her alone!” _ and _ “don't touch her!”_. They broke Peter’s heart every time, and he knew that no amount of hugs or reassurances could ease the guilt she felt over Nebula’s upbringing.

That look in Nebula’s eyes though, so fulfilled and prideful that Peter has oftentimes considered losing on purpose. 

That isn't what Nebula wants though, so he fights to the best of his ability. It’s never enough — not against Nebula and all of her varying modifications, but Peter thinks he’s definitely improved since they began.

He throws down the cloth and glares at the reflection in the metal as if it is the projection of one of his deepest enemies. He’s found that it’s easier to admit to his self-hatred and embrace it than it is to try to combat it directly. There’s really no reason for him to try and get any better in general.

Who would he be doing it for? He’s already established that he harbors an unavoidable hatred for himself as it is, so what other reason does he have?

His team, you could say; they are one of the only feasible answers to such a question.

Then again, Peter thinks that they have to know that he will never be the same again. Ever since the Guardians met, it has been painstakingly clear that there is no Peter without Gamora. _ He’d never last, _ was the unspoken consensus. It’s a wonder he’s made it this far to begin with.

This whole vigilante mission has taken over the forefront of his mind (along with the round-the-clock screaming of _ Gamora, Gamora, Gamora _ that his inner voice has insisted on partaking in). It's one of the only things that Peter has left to actually look forward to; the only event marked on the multitude of blank pages filling the metaphorical calendar of his life.

_ ‘Looking forward to’ _ is not the best way to describe it. It’s more like he is sure he will snap and light his quarters on fire if he doesn't get off of the ship as soon as possible.

There is one teensy little problem with that. Nebula’s being _ way _ more critical and meticulous than he expected her to be. Maybe he should have seen this coming, but he also assumed that Nebula was just as eager to begin as he was.

“Quill!” He hears her voice snaking its way down the halls. His muscles cry in protest as he jolts upwards, snapping Godslayer back into itself and sheathing it in one fluid motion.

“Yeesh. I’m coming, I’m coming,” he mutters mostly to himself as he exits his quarters and follows the echo of her call into the Benatar’s gym.

“I said to return in an hour, did I not?” she says, cold and hard with a disapproving look in her eyes. Peter surveys her as he enters. She has been more bitter and brutal today than usual, even for Nebula.

“We’ve been at it nonstop, Nebula. I think if anything, I’m overprepared.”

Nebula chooses to ignore that. “Quit complaining,” she retorts, a slight bite to her tone.

“Me? I’m not complaining.” Peter recoils at the accusation, placing his hand against his chest in mock offense. “I would _ never.” _

His attempt at being light and witty leaves him with a bad taste in his mouth. He shouldn’t be able to laugh and keep up with his typical antics. He’s not the same, he will _ never _ be the same, and frankly he’s afraid of what will happen if he grows too familiar with this altered version of his life that he’s been thrown into.

He doesn’t want to get used to a life without Gamora. He doesn’t want to laugh and joke when it should be her that’s doing all that, when it should be him that’s stuck in a stone or decomposing at the bottom of a frozen cliff

He has sobered up completely, all traces of humor absent. Peter inhales and swipes a hand across his face. “We should be leaving. We’ve been at this for two weeks. It’s exhausting.”

Nebula rolls her eyes. “You would not be this exhausted if you did not insist on punishing yourself,” she says casually.

Peter has no sense left to respond with another joke, every ounce of comprehension thrown out the window along with his ability to form words. He’s not sure what Nebula’s getting at here, but he knows the conversation is edging towards uncomfortable territory — the kind of conversation that makes his fingers itch and his hands shake.

“What?” is all he can manage to croak out. It feels as if she has unearthed a secret from the depths of his internal despair, a fact buried beneath piles of unshed grief — lost among the caverns of decaying bones in his mindscape, the skeletons in his metaphysical closet.

His instincts tell him to bite back, to refuse to allow her to continue weaving her way into his thoughts in an attempt to figure him out. He wants to hate her for it, wants to lash out and take the Milano without another word.

She’s not his fucking mom.

“You do not eat. You do not sleep. It is a wonder you are even able to remain standing at this point,” Nebula states, lip curled in a challenging snark. She’s practically begging him to disagree, waiting eagerly for the opportunity to shoot down whatever it is that he has to say.

“I’m not a fucking child.” Peter loses a bit of his composure, flinching in turn at the death stare that she levels at him. “I agreed to your training, not a therapy session.”

“If you are not a child then quit whining like one,” Nebula barks. She doesn't seem to have appreciated his tone, nor his words, but he’ll be damned if he lets her pick apart his emotions any more than she already has. “And I would like to avoid any future repeats of what happened on Vormir if I can help it.”

A second passes where he does nothing but take deep breaths over the memories of nightmares past — the ones featuring Thanos and Gamora standing on a rocky cliffside — before he’s able to realize the other instance Nebula is referring to. 

_ “Jesus, _will you quit throwing that in my face?” Peter likes to avoid thinking about what happened on Vormir as much as he possibly can. He works hard to fight against the images of thick, vibrant blood — stagnant and pooled like liquid gold. There are flashes of a growing flurry, the cold air nipping at his exposed skin and turning the wetness beneath his eyes into a thin sheen of ice. “I’m not a danger to myself or whatever you think I—”

She interrupts. “No, you are only a liability to this whole team.” Nebula’s face is stricken by a harsh sneer. “You constantly throw this team into danger with your recklessness and impulsiveness, but at least you are not _ suicidal,” _ she deadpans. “Is that right, Quill?”

His entire face is flushed now, red and hot and furious. “Oh, this is all my fault now? I put all of us in danger? As far as I remember, you didn’t exactly disagree with what I did back on our last mission!” He falters. “Isn’t that why we’re even doing all of this? _ Revenge?” _

Nebula is silent for a moment, and if Peter didn’t know any better he’d say she’s lost for words. She blows out a mix between a sigh and a groan before unsheathing her sword, long and glistening in the artificial lighting.

Peter quirks a brow in slight disbelief before brandishing Godslayer in front of him. He can’t say he’s surprised — Nebula tends to communicate better while engaging in physical activity. It allows her to channel her aggression elsewhere. Peter’s glad for it; he isn’t dealing with his frustration any better than she is.

“There is a difference between one’s motives and the method in which they choose to carry them out,” Nebula says. “I can agree with your desires and disagree with the impulsivity that motivated you to pursue them.”

She charges first, filling the room with the screech of clashing metal when their swords collide. Nebula throws an overhand cut with full momentum. Peter moves quickly, instinctively dodging her attack. He sends a swing towards her left side, making contact with her sword. They send more slashes towards each other's weapons, and he does his best to ignore the shrill ring in his ears.

“It was not impulsive.” Peter says, blocking another attack. “I knew what I wanted to do.”

Nebula scoffs and runs her blade along Godslayer as she rears it back for another attack. “Just like you ‘knew what you were doing’ back on Vormir?” She dodges one of his swings and snarls. “You are not competent enough to be making big decisions right now. That is why I will dictate when your training is complete.”

Peter doesn’t get why she’s so set on managing every one of his actions and decisions. It’s not like she has ever cared for his well-being in the past.

“What are you? My keeper or something?” he asks. “Why do you care all of a sudden whether I live or die?”

Nebula surprises Peter with a diagonal swing. He leaps back and hits her blade aside. She rears her sword back, deflecting a blow off of Godslayer and slicing a cut at Peter’s hand.

He yelps and yanks the appendage back, shocked at the shallow but stinging cut that drips gradually down his wrist with steady streams of scarlet. “What the hell?” he yells.

“If you do not care then someone must!” Nebula yells back. “I owe my sister many things, and if making sure her idiot boyfriend does not get himself killed is how I repay her, then that is what I will do!”

She grimaces at his hand a moment before her face returns to its stone cold demeanor. “If you are so insistent on dying, do it on your own terms. Forgive me for refusing to let the mission I proposed serve as your idea of a martyr's ending.”

Their swords remain stilled in their hands. Peter sighs and looks down.

His thoughts on death keep changing. One second he wants to follow Gamora’s wishes and the next he yearns for eternal sleep, perhaps even to be granted passage to some form of an afterlife — given a hypothetical higher power decides to take pity on his soul.

He can sort of understand where Nebula’s coming from. It makes sense that she’s being overly cautious, afraid to let their vigilante mission be the reason he fails to return to the Benatar and to the team. It makes sense that she’s afraid (though she would never admit it) to be the reason anyone else dies. None of it has been her fault, and it still wouldn’t be if something were to happen to him, but that simple fact is hard for all of them to accept.

Blaming yourself is a bit of a universal truth for them.

_ Who is to blame when the most obvious answer has become ash and dust? _

“If I promise to try my hardest to not die, can we just get out of here already?” Peter looks up and locks eyes with her. “You were right. I can’t — I need to do this… Okay?”

Nebula cocks a brow as if she’s considering this. “Ravagers are not known for their promises…”

“It’s not a Ravager promise. It’s a Peter Quill promise.” He tugs at his bloodied lip between ivory teeth. “And I don’t break my promises.”

He thinks she grasps the meaning behind that, given the slight twist of her lip and the way she hesitates to respond. The word _ promise _ slices at his throat and leaves him breathless, and he knows his reaction has to be obvious to Nebula as well. He hopes she understands how significant promises are for him now, after everything.

“Fine,” she says. “You are as prepared as you will ever be.” 

Nebula throws a swift cut towards him unexpectedly, and he blocks it with similar swiftness and urgency. She taught him to stay on his guard; judging by the slight quirk of her lip, he’s not doing half bad.

“We will leave in two day cycles,” she says finally, sheathing her sword.

* * *

It says a lot about his mental state that he decides to spend night one in a busted, decrepit bar on a planet whose name he forgot about three drinks in.

His senses are numbed with a warm buzz that he’s all too familiar with. Rocket is blabbering to the bartender about all five hundred ways he could blow the building to smithereens while Drax and Mantis argue over which of them would win in a drinking contest.

Drax would definitely win, no questions asked. Peter may or may not secretly request for all of Mantis’ drinks to be made virgin after her first alcoholic beverage of the night. It’s something he has been accustomed to doing with Gamora — given they were the only two Guardians sober enough to watch after Mantis the first time she got drunk.

They stuck to the task of making sure she never got drunk again after that.

Peter feels pretty shitty admitting it, but he’s glad Thor isn't here with them. For all Peter knows, which isn't much, the man is dealing with some hoity-toity royal business with Valkyrie back in New Asgard.

Nebula’s not here with them now either, probably on the ship making sure Groot doesn't burn the place down or get himself seriously injured. He wouldn't go as far as to say she’s _ watching _him. Nebula is pretty insistent on claiming that she does not babysit.

Either way, it’s just the four of them tonight, and Peter is wishing more and more that he would've stayed back on the ship.

“Quill!” Drax booms from two seats over, Mantis sitting contently between the two of them. “We are glad you decided to join us tonight,” the ex-vigilante himself says, his voice significantly louder than it was three shots ago. 

“Oh _ yes!” _ Mantis hiccups, and Peter wonders whether the single alcoholic drink she’s had is the cause or whether Drax’s drunkenness is rubbing off on her. Is being drunk even an emotion that can be reflected by her powers? He makes a mental note to ask her about it someday. “It is nice seeing you off of the ship for a change!”

Maybe the rest of his life will be spent trying to make sense of backhanded insults and vaguely offensive comments spoken with pure intentions. Like most things he hears these days, he’s unsure how to respond, unsure whether to be offended or not.

“Yeah,” he says. “Nebs and I are heading out soon. Thought I’d at least come out with you guys before leaving.”

There’s a lot of things that Peter currently feels bad or guilty about, and leaving the other Guardians behind easily makes one of the top ten. It’d be great if they could come too, but he knows that would only mean throwing them into the line of fire. It would mean putting them in even more danger than he already has. He would be liable. _ A liability. _

Mantis frowns and Drax favors a murky concoction of a beverage he has never seen. A distinct, chittering laugh echoes from beside him.

“Stupidest flarkin’ idea I’ve ever heard,” Rocket mutters, the bartender mysteriously gone and a row of shots left in his absence. “Surprised it was Nebula’s.”

Peter sighs and glares down the line of shots sitting atop the polished wood. He told himself he wouldn't drink too much tonight, maybe even give Nebula’s advice a try and start working on that whole ‘not punishing’ himself thing that she’s going on about, but he’s pretty sure he’s going to need at least a couple more to get him through the night.

Besides, the only way he’s getting any sleep is if he’s too shitfaced to think, let alone _ dream. _ So what if he has a pounding headache and horrific nausea in the morning? At least he’ll get some sleep.

“You gonna lecture me about my emotions and mental health too?” Peter asks, tired and fed up with having to answer for the same exact things.

Rocket shakes his head. “Nah. I’d rather just split these and trust that Nebs isn't gonna let you decapitate yourself with a sword.” He nods down at the glasses and pushes two Peter’s way.

“First couple rounds on me,” Rocket says. “Unless you’re feelin’ cheap and wanna scam these con-artists and nab their expensive booze.” He snickers.

Peter grins and thinks fondly of waking up in a drunk tank on Krylor with Rocket and Drax, all lumped in the corner as they tried piecing together the night before with their one collective brain cell.

Gamora had come to their rescue a few hours later, Mantis in tow and Groot perched anxiously on her shoulder. She had given all of them an earful after that, claiming that she should have left them to rot in there after their boys night out had escalated into failing to inform her of their whereabouts and getting arrested for starting a bar fight.

When she finally calmed down enough later in the evening, enough to actually _ talk, _ Peter was able to figure out how much of her anger was actually just redirected fear and worry at going so long without knowing where they were or what had happened to them.

Peter gulps.

“You know normally I’d be too down for that,” he starts, “but I think we should probably save ourselves the pain of sleeping on the floor of a holding cell tonight.” He breathes out a slight chuckle.

“Raincheck,” Rocket says. It almost brings a smile to his face to hear that Rocket still remembers the Terran lingo that Peter has continued to teach them throughout the years. He wonders whether or not Rocket discovered some new ones without them.

He tries not to let that bother him too much.

“You know it,” Peter says, lifting his glass. “Cheers.” He throws back the fluid and manages to wince significantly less than usual.

Rocket follows close behind, gulping down the liquor and sliding another shot to Drax and Peter. Mantis continues to sip at what she believes to be an alcoholic margarita. Her antenna light up in short bursts each time she slurps too fast and gets a brain-freeze from the slushie.

Mantis purses her lips in that expression she gives whenever she's deep in thought. She looks up from her beverage dizzyingly fast and swivels in her stool to face him.

“Peter?” she says with a questioning tone. He hums and throws back another shot, aware that he’s likely going to need it to answer this question. “How long will you and Nebula be gone?”

Peter shrugs and takes a second to think about it. He hasn't really gotten that far down the line yet, knowing that thinking too far ahead has only led to the worst possible trains of thought.

“Not sure. As long as it takes, I guess.”

Rocket huffs but otherwise stays silent.

“What?” Peter asks. It’s not often that Rocket is anything less than overtly vocal about his opinions, so Peter can't help being a little skeptical.

“Nothing… just—” He scrunches his face into a confused expression before reaching across the counter for another shot. “As long as _ what _takes? What are you expecting to happen? Divine intervention?”

Peter shakes his head as if that’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard in his life. _ “What? _No!” he exclaims. “It’s our responsibility to—”

“We’ve saved the galaxy and prob’ly the whole d’ast Universe more times than we can count. Stop saying it’s your responsibility ‘cause you don't owe jack shit to anyone.”

Peter sighs. “I know, but I just… I want — I _ need _ to—”

“Geez, don’t hurt yourself…” Rocket grimaces. “I get it. You think this is going to ease your conscience or give you closure or whatever mushy, humie thing ya wanna call it is.” Rocket sighs and finally throws back the shot in his grasp. “Sounds like a load of bull to me but, for what it’s worth, I hope it works.”

Peter allows his lips to quirk up into a smile. “Thanks man.”

Rocket rolls his eyes and flags down the bartender. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s just get another round ov’r here before things get even mushier.”

Peter chokes back a laugh as Rocket pesters the poor worker for more than their fair share of alcohol. He looks over at Drax to see if he has anything to add to their order and notices how he stares idly at the unfinished contents of his glass. 

Much like he was skeptical of Rocket’s sudden silence earlier, Peter is automatically startled by Drax’s lack of enthusiasm with alcohol.

“Drax? You good, man?” Peter asks.

Drax snaps out of it and faces him, Mantis still sandwiched between the two and now obnoxiously attempting to suck the last droplet of liquid out of her glass, producing an ungodly sound that the other patrons of the bar do not seem to enjoy.

“I am excellent. I was thinking about your mission,” Drax says, not offering anything more.

As he quickly weighs the pros and cons of asking for more details, he notices a striking imbalance favoring the con side of the list. Peter is too curious for his own good and too concerned with the opinions of others to think rationally, though.

“Anything specific?” he asks.

Drax shrugs and finally lifts his drink to his mouth. “I am not as optimistic about it as our friend Rocket here.”

Rocket scowls. “Optimistic? You miss the part where I called it the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard?”

“Yes but—” Drax places his drink back down, a tad offset from where it had been originally, judging by the ring of condensation it left behind. “I am more uncertain than you.”

Peter thinks of _ “I am uncertain about parting ways” _ and leaving the busted Milano back with Rocket on Berhert. He thinks of where they stood then, their faulty relationships, and all of the progress they all have made since then. He thinks of meeting Mantis on Ego, how she learned how to be part of something bigger than Ego ever could have offered her.

He thinks of bonfires and David Hasselhoff and talking cars and stolen handholds and shrugs given by assassins who didn't yet know that they were worth the Universe and _ eternity _and so much more.

He thinks about all of that progress, blown to shit by a purple asshole with a nutsack for a chin.

Drax continues, throwing him from his thoughts. “I am concerned with your need for revenge,” he says. “It will break you. It will eat you from the inside out until there is nothing left.”

Peter laughs uncomfortably and looks down. “What a strange time to catch on to metaphors, buddy.”

Drax ignores that and carries on. “When my family was murdered, I nearly let my thirst for vengeance consume me. I wish not to see that fate befall you, my friend.”

“Laying it on a little thick, dude.” Peter gulps and bites his lip. He doesn't want to think about what will happen if justice fails him. He doesn't want to think about a life without direction.

He definitely does not want to think about getting to a point where he can talk about Gamora’s death as casually and securely as Drax can about his wife and daughter, years of grief and careful discussions making it easier to speak and hear. It’s a good thing; Drax deserves to be happy, but Peter does not want to live in a Universe where the thought of Gamora’s death is seen as normal.

“You are not thick,” Drax says in that confused tone that signals he’s missed an integral subtlety in the conversation. “You might have been before, but you are rather skinny now.”

“It was a _ metaphor! _ And — hey! I am not skinny!”

“What was it that Rocket said before? About the sandwiches?!” Drax questions with eagerness.

“You are one sandwich away from being fat?” Mantis supplies helpfully.

“Oh yes!” Drax erupts with laughter. “You are _ all-of-the-sandwiches-in-this-establishment _away from being fat!” Mantis joins in his laughter, her antenna lit up like a Christmas tree. “Get it? Because you are so thin that—”

_ “Dude.” _ Peter says warningly. He notices that Rocket is silent beside him, which is confusing; he would’ve expected him to join in on their teasing. He was the one who started that joke, anyway.

When he looks over, the raccoon can't even look at him. He makes eye contact for a second before whipping his head back to face his liquor. He reaches up to loosen the tightness of Peter’s old scarf around his neck.

“Anyway… I am not _ thin, _and I’m not gonna be like— consumed by vengeance or whatever you just said.” Peter scratches the back of his neck. The alcohol has succeeded in making his ability to form sentences more difficult than usual. “I’m fine.”

Rocket finally looks up from his glass, if only to give him the most intrusive glare he’s even seen.

“Fine, _ fine, _ okay… _ geez...” _ Peter winces. “So maybe I’m not _ okay _ but I’m not gonna do anything stupid neither,” he says, now that he’s promised that to Nebula anyway. “I’ve jus’ gotta go and maybe when I come back I will be. Fine, I mean.”

They’re relatively silent after that, save for the few slurps Mantis gives her drink. After it catches on that she isn't going to get anything more out of it, she sits up straight and smiles.

“I am sure you will be! You are very brave!” she says, as genuine as every compliment she gives.

“Thanks, Mantis.” Peter smiles and raises another shot glass in the air. Mantis raises her empty glass and clinks it against his, something she has expressed enjoyment in doing ever since he taught her what it was.

He doesn't mention that he knows he’ll never be truly fine ever again. He doesn't see the point in leaving them with that image in their heads — the image of him withering away and fading before their eyes, emotionally distancing himself and becoming a shell of who he was.

He doesn't want to think about it either.

* * *

A couple hours later and Rocket and Peter are in the cockpit, absolutely shitfaced, with a bottle of Xandarian alcohol between the two of them.

“So” —_ hiccup— _ “Can you imagine goin’ your entire life without ever havin’ been anywhere ‘cept your own shitty planet?” Rocket says. “That’s how most’ve the humies on your d’ast homeworld live, Quill.”

Peter shrugs. “Guess ’m lucky I was kidnapped then, huh?” He squints at the bottle of liquor, wondering how they managed to decrease the volume in the bottle so quickly.

Rocket snatches the bottle up before Peter even has a chance to consider it. It’s his turn to shrug. “Depends on how ya wanna look at it, I guess.” He has an odd grimace on his face before he lifts the bottle to his lips. “Anyway, they all looked like they was gonna barf when we first took ‘em to space.”

Peter laughs as he reminisces. “I was the same way, y’know.” He winces at the memories of having to keep a bucket next to his bed for weeks. “Took me a while… before I got used to space travel — threw up ‘n stuff a bunch.”

Rocket screws up his face and hands the bottle back over to him. Peter takes it and lets the fluid sting at the cut inside his lip before swallowing it back to snake down his throat. “Turns out all humies are fragile, yer not jus’ some special case like I thought there for a while,” he muses.

“Cap was prob’ly the only d’ast one who could take a couple of hits without being knocked on his ass every flarkin’ time,” Rocket finishes.

Peter narrows his eyes and shakes his head. “Still can't believe you met Captain _ freaking _America.”

“Didn’t jus’ meet him… _ worked _ with ‘im,” Rocket clarifies. “‘Sides didn't ya meet at… _ uhh… _ at — y’know _ the thing?” _ Rocket stumbles over his words; whether from uncomfortableness, drunkenness, or legitimate confusion — Peter doesn’t know.

Peter raises his eyebrows, tilting his head to get a better look at the raccoonoid. “Y’mean the _ funeral? _ Not exactly the right place to try to befriend your childhood hero, dude.”

Rocket scoffs. “You could prob’ly still meet him now if ya hurry and get there ‘fore he expires.”

Peter’s eyes widen, his mouth gaping slightly. “Dude.”

_ “Uh uh, _nope—” Rocket shakes his head. “—he made the wrong choice… ‘S his fault he’s like this now.”

“Like _ what? _Old and happy? The guy left everything he knew behind to be with the love of his life.” Peter furrows his brow in confusion.

“At what cost? He left all those people behind to live in some fantasy world! Messed with the timeline ‘n everything. And for what? _ Love?” _

“Yeah, man. Love.”

Rocket scoffs and takes another swig. “Of course _ you’d _ think it’s romantic.”

Peter stills, looking out the windshield, unblinking. His expression flattens, resembling a man who has hidden behind a porcelain mask, emotions dead to the world and to himself as well.

Rocket sucks in a breath, realizing belatedly the implication of his words. “Ah, hell, Pete I — I didn’t mean it like that… I—”

“It’s fine.”

He’s probably right anyway. He has been living in a fantasy world. There is no other world worth being in right now. Peter would rather spend his days pretending than facing the cold hard truth of life.

Would he do the same if the choice was offered? If it suddenly became an option to go back to the second they knew Thanos was coming, choosing to run away from everyone and everything they know instead, would he do it? Even if it meant leaving his family behind?

“Nah. No, s’not.” Rocket tugs at the scarf around his neck again, once again loosening its hold. “S’not fine.”

Peter doesn't like how flustered and guilty he appears to be, would rather squash this conversation before it escalates. “Really… Rocket, I know you didn’t mean it like that,” Peter says, even though he’s not sure he really believes that himself. “It’s fine.”

“S’not fine,” he whispers again. “I’ve been nothin’ but a dick to you since we met.”

Peter’s throat locks tight. “What are you talking about, man?”

It’s like something snaps in his pyromaniacal friend, a visible change that Peter can see in Rocket’s eyes alone, apparent even more with the way he jumps up from his seat — swaying with intoxication.

Peter sits up straighter. “Rock, _ dude, _ seriously what’s wron—”

“Do you remember the last thing I said to you before you were snapped?”

Peter flinches, not having expected that. Being reminded of his death doesn't rank high on the list of his favorite conversation topics.

He tries his best to think back though, knowing that for all they have done for him, he’s outta help someone else out for once. Their last conversation is foggy. He remembers that Thor was there, vaguely remembers some kind of dispute or bickering between Rocket and himself, but nothing too unlike the way they typically speak to one another. Maybe Rocket was a tad harsher than usual, but that could’ve just been fear talking. They were all apprehensive about facing Thanos, their emotions strung high.

It's hard to remember specific words though, even harder to remember the last words spoken. He was a little distracted, what with the news that Thanos was actually presenting himself as a threat after years of tossing around hypothetical scenarios with Gamora.

Whatever happened in that conversation was memorialized for Rocket for five years — while, for Peter, it happened only four weeks ago and he can hardly remember it at all.

“Kind of…” Peter pauses. “Do _ you?” _

Rocket nods, finally eye level with Peter now that he’s standing on the chair. “It was the last time I saw any of you for five d’asted years. How could I forget?”

He hesitates.

“You… you said tha’ I was just going with Thor because it was where Thanos wasn't. Remember that? You said I was goin’ ‘cause I was scared, right?” Rocket slurs, borderline frantic at this point.

Peter shakes his head with remorse. “Look, I’m sorry I was just—”

Rocket sticks out a hand in response, pleading for him to stop. He shakes his head. “No. No, I _ was _ scared. You were right, Quill. Gamora was always makin’ her old man out to be this flarkin’ monster with a modification fetish an’ I wanted to be as far away from that as possible.”

Peter’s heart skips a couple beats, his hands clammy in the way that makes him have to wipe them down on the material of his pants. “No one’s blaming you for that, Rock. _ Hell, _I was scared too. None of us knew what we were walking into.”

Rocket shakes his head again. “Thaa’s not the point. I shouldn't have ran; I jus’ left all of you idiots to fend for yourselves.” He sighs. “But I’m not — I’m not talkin’ ‘bout that right now…”

Peter tilts his head, his eyebrows furrowed. If not guilt for having left with Thor, (well perhaps a little, but not the _ main _ reason) then what could Rocket possibly have to be guilty for? 

“Then what?” Peter asks.

Rocket sighs, reaching back over for the bottle. They’ve had enough alcohol tonight. They’ve _ definitely _ had enough. “It was everythin’ I said to you. Every time I’d ever made some stupid joke in your expense or been an asshole to the team…”

“That's kinda our thing, though,” Peter says, softening his voice. “Remember? We’re a bunch of a-holes…” He trails off. “Hey, listen. We both did those types of things all the time. I never took it person’ly or nothin’.”

_ “Bull_, you didn't,” Rocket mutters. “You didn't see the look on yer face when I left with Groot and Thor. That look was ‘bout as personal-taking as it gets.”

Peter frowns. He’s missing some piece of the puzzle that Rocket’s conveniently keeping to himself.

“I said that I was the captain,” Rocket finally admits, looking down. “‘_You really shouldn't talk that way to your captain, Quill’,” _ he whispers. “Tha’ was the last thing I said to you in five years.”

Now Peter’s really confused. That doesn't even come close to some of the worst things they’ve said to each other. “I’m not — I don't care about that, man. Seriously, it’s cool.”

Rocket squints in disbelief. “It’s _ cool? _ Nothin’ about this is cool.” He shakes his head. “You guys were about to face _ Thanos _ of all people and that’s all I hadta say to you?”

“It was the last time I would see any of you alive for another five flarking years. Why couldn't I have jus’ said goodbye? Or 'don't get killed, morons’? _ Anything _ else,” Rocket says, eyes guilty and pleading.

Peter quiets. “It wouldn't have changed anything. We still would’ve been dusted…” 

Rocket stays silent, looking back down. Peter wants to convince him, but he understands Rocket's predicament all too well. Guilt has a funny way of coursing through your veins, embedding itself within your very soul and integrating itself until eventually it becomes a part of you. It becomes your identity, and suddenly you’ve become accustomed to the feeling in a way that makes you afraid to let go.

There’s just one thing Peter has to ask.

“Is that why you… y’know...” Peter gestures to the article of clothing around his neck, “started wearing that?”

It’s obvious that Rocket must've missed them; he knows that much. Still, it’s hard to believe that he could have that big of an impact on anyone.

Rocket shrugs, a bit uncomfortable looking. He’s struck an area that's too vulnerable. Five years does a lot in terms of learning to open up, (as does the amount of alcohol they’ve consumed) but limits still exist. 

“Same reason you carry that ‘round, I guess,” Rocket says, nodding over to his belt where Godslayer is currently sheathed, freshly cleaned and glimmering in the starlight. “Remembrance? Maybe a little guilt on’tha side. Besides, looks better on me than it ever did on you.”

Peter smiles, a mix of grief and guilt and pity that takes the form of a crooked grin. He tries not to imagine Rocket stumbling across their belongings the same way he stumbles across Gamora’s — harboring the profound realization that the objects will never be put to the same use again.

“You’re lucky I let you keep that thing,” Peter says.

Rocket laughs. “Thaa’s rich, Quill. You’d have to cut it off me in my sleep.”

Peter shakes his head and motions for Rocket to pass over the bottle once more. He wraps his palm around the glass and pulls it towards his chest. It hovers there for a moment before he slowly lifts it towards his lips and takes another swig.

“I’ve got somethin’ for you though, consider it a trade,” Rocket says. He reaches beneath the seat, fiddling around until he pulls up a familiar object in his hands.

His mask and chip, conveniently unbroken and complete in Rocket’s hands.

“Ya busted it up real good back on our last fuck-show of a mission.” Rocket snorts. ”Figured I’d fix it up so’s you don't get yer skull bashed in.”

Peter takes his mask as Rocket offers it, turning it over in his hand before deactivating it and watching the mask dematerialize into the chip. He places it behind his ear just for the familiarity of it all and smiles in what he hopes shows at least a little bit of his gratitude. 

“Thanks, Rocket.”

Rocket waves him off. “Yeah, yeah. Iss nothing.”

“No, really. Thanks, man. Means a lot.”

Rocket nods and looks over towards the stars. They seem brighter tonight, partly due to the brewing headache in Peter’s skull.

His mother did always say that once she was gone she would be looking down on him from the stars. He hopes that's not true. He’d hate for his mother to be condemned to spend all of eternity as a dying star, lonely amidst the blackness of deep space. Peter wonders if being a star is as lonely as it looks.

“Promise me one thing though?” Rocket says. “Dunno if I’m gonna be able to say this sober so now's a good of a time as any.”

“What is it?” Peter asks, afraid of the answer.

“Just — Don't die, okay? I know you prob’ly want to, Pete, but… we can't lose anyone else.” 

Peter presses his lips together and looks down. He feels the weight of his mask chip behind his ears, hears the sound of their ship’s engines thrumming beneath their feet, sees the flash of dark red in his peripherals as Rocket fiddles with the material around his neck.

He has so much waiting for him here — from Mantis’ warm hugs to Drax’s hearty laughs to Groot’s teenage angst to Nebula’s sarcastic remarks.

He has Rocket’s genuine compassion and friendship, something he would’ve absolutely laughed at the thought of if he’d heard that years ago. 

There’s no denying any of it. He has his family here, his team, his people.

And yet there’s still something missing.

He still needs to go. He still needs to figure out what life is now that she’s gone. He needs to decide whether it's possible to mend whatever’s left of his broken soul.

Everything is waiting for him here, but even everything is missing a few things that are too important to overlook.

He doesn't say anything. He just nods.

A single tear works its way down his face, a few stray ones falling down to mingle with it as they congregate atop his cheekbone. If Rocket sees, he doesn't say anything.

Peter just nods. He just nods…

* * *

The Milano sits parked in the private garage they own on Xandar. The orange and blue of the hull are as shiny as ever, primarily due to the fact that they hardly take it out anymore.

Its sole purpose since they acquired the Benatar had been to serve as his and Gamora’s transportation on solo outings. They've only had a handful of those over the years, memorable times where they were able to take one-on-one vacations together.

The Milano is another thing that feels as if it is frozen in time. There’s a suffocating pressure in the atmosphere, like he’s surrounded by ghosts. Whenever he steps foot into the ship it feels like he’s been blasted years into the past. It feels wrong, like he’s somehow an intruder in his own memories.

Like it or not, the Milano will be his and Nebula’s home for an indeterminate amount of time, and it is entirely his fault for getting himself into this.

He steps closer to the ship, running his hand across the cool metal. The warmth of his skin is sucked out by the chill, the hairs on his arms springing up due to a mix of temperature and emotion. He lets his fingertips trace the lines of the ship a moment more before dropping his arm to his side and taking several steps back.

Nebula appears at his side a minute later, though she remains quiet. She appears to be looking at the Milano too, although undoubtedly invoking less emotion than he currently is.

“Ready, Quill?” she asks, her voice monotone and detached.

“Yeah, we can — _ uh, _we can get going.” His sight remains transfixed on the Milano a moment more. He shakes himself from it and turns around, greeted by the faces of his team waiting to send them off.

Thor has rejoined them, smiling earnestly and very clearly trying to be supportive. Peter is almost touched by that.

He doesn't know where to start. They're all giving him a look that’s so sincere and familial-like that it sends a pang to the center of his chest. He has so much he wants to say to each one of them.

_ “Guys…” _ Peter starts, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to get out whatever goodbye speech his brain is attempting to produce. “I just want to say—”

Rocket shakes his head sympathetically. “Nuh uh, we’re not doing all that. We’re not sayin’ our goodbyes and gettin’ all sentimental, Quill.” He sighs and shares a look with Nebula, something that's very telling only Peter can't wrap his head around it. “You’re coming back, both of you.”

Peter inhales and nods, biting down on his lip. It’s not a goodbye. He has full intentions on coming back to all of them.

But…

It somehow feels like a goodbye. At least, it seems like he’s saying goodbye to _ something. _ The air is filled with that electric, static-like feeling that sparks and sputters whenever something massive is about to change. The telltale sign of change is upon them, so obvious that he’s sure everyone can feel it too.

No one brings it up. He’s sure they're all willing to pretend that this is like any other mission they've ever gone on. It’s so much easier to pretend nowadays.

“If not goodbye, then what?” Peter asks, desperate to be wrong, desperate to receive an answer that he believes.

“How about ‘see you later’?” Rocket says.

Peter laughs despite himself, a sharp intake of air, really. _ “Yeah. _ Yeah, that works.”

“We will see you when you return, Quill.” Drax smiles, nodding slightly.

Thor takes a couple steps forward and claps him on the shoulder. “You are both doing the galaxy a wondrous favor. Gamora would be proud,” he says, directed to both of them but his eyes trained on Peter.

Mantis runs up next, throwing her arms around him in a suffocating embrace. Peter’s shocked for a moment, allowing her to hold him for a split second before reacting and hugging her back. He’s filled with a warming, joyful sensation, though Mantis’ antenna remain unlit.

Groot is next. He walks over to the crowd of them sheepishly. He pauses for a moment, unsure, before wrapping his branches around Peter’s legs.

Mantis steps back, but Groot remains in his embrace. They hug a few moments more before the teenager lets go, looking down at the floor in what Peter would think is embarrassment if he didn't know any better.

“I’ll be back soon, kiddo,” Peter says, ruffling up the leaves on his head. Groot lets out an annoyed huff, but Peter doesn't miss the quick smile on his face.

Peter looks up at everyone, his eyes shiny and his mouth curved. “Thanks guys. Love you, don't forget that.”

Rocket shakes his head. “We love ya too, you bastard.” He grimaces. _ “Ack, _ don't make me say that again.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Wouldn't dream of it.”

“Oh, and Rocket? You’re stand-in-captain while I’m gone, ya hear that Thor?” Peter turns towards the Asgardian and raises a dutiful brow.

Thor rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, though his lips quirk into an amused smile.

Rocket huffs. “Uh, _ yeah. _ That goes without saying.” His joking demeanor cracks for a moment. “The pilot seat’s waiting for you when you get back, Quill.”

Peter nods. “Yeah.”

“When I get back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm...
> 
> Lots of character interaction in this chapter. I promise the next one will have a lot more action and all that good juicy, angsty stuff we all love so much. Dark!Quill is coming upon us...
> 
> I'd like to hear any predictions if you have them!!!
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed! As always, please leave kudos, reviews, or drop in your favorite quotes!


	6. Outta Sight in the Dead of Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, hasn't it?
> 
> First, I'd like to apologize for how long it's taken for an update. I cannot describe how stressful this whole experience has been for me, and I'm sure a lot of us are in the same boat. I lost a lot of motivation with not just writing, but with things in general. Quarantine was not treating me very good at first, but I am working on staying positive and staying productive during this time.
> 
> Thank you all for being such active reviewers and readers. I cannot thank you enough. Writing is a form of catharsis for me and I can't wait to dive back into it. I hope my updates will become less sporadic from this point on. I will try to form more consistency and get more chapters uploaded fairly soon. Again, so sorry for the wait.
> 
> With that being said, here's the latest chapter!

He stands before the mirror, gazing intently at the green eyes staring back at him. He’s stuck between the two realms, feeling as if he could step through and enter an alternate reality, one that’s undoubtedly better than his current one.

The Milano’s bathroom is cramped, a jarring contrast to the one they’ve got on the Benatar. The walls feel as if they are closing in on him, his skin suddenly too tight to keep everything inside. Peter’s ready to burst, his senses running on overdrive. The littlest things — the weight of his clothes on his body, the sensation of his pulse throbbing in his palms as they press down against the sink — are too much for his overwhelmed brain to take in. He squeezes his eyes shut and wills everything to stop.

Maybe this is too much. Maybe Rocket was right and this is all ‘just a little too personal, a little too soon’. 

He leans forward and turns on the faucet, cupping his trembling hands and splashing his face with the cool water. The droplets run their course along his face, streaming down his neck until the black collar of his shirt takes them in. He grabs the washcloth beside him and scrubs it across his skin until he’s sure all traces of his anxiety are absent.

Once the evidence of water is nothing more than a few stray droplets strewn across the counter, he steps back and looks up at the mirror once more.

His hair sits atop his head in disarray, a few loose curls twirling and obscuring the top portion of his forehead. He’s due for a cut but can’t imagine how well that would go. He wonders if he would be able to keep his hands from shaking, his vision clouded as he’d picture Gamora sitting above him, snipping away at the errant strands. Peter runs a hand through his locks — one time, two times, _ three times _ and he’s about ready to tear it all out.

His outfit is a bit uncharacteristic. He’s clad in all black — his boots, pants, shirt, even _ jacket _ fashioned with a deep, darkened color. He longs for the days when things felt bright, the red of his Ravager jacket trailing behind him, appearing to be as confident as ever as he sweet-talked his marks. Peter looks at his reflection and pretends that Gamora is behind him. In his head she’s holding his shoulders as they both stare into the mirror, her green skin standing out nicely against the light grey of his favorite shirt as the hem hovers just above her knees.

Godslayer’s hilt pokes out from where it’s sheathed by his belt, the only pop of color standing out amidst the blackness. Silver catches his eye like thin shallow cuts, beautiful and yet forged with malicious intent, so called _ gifts _ given in the cold vastness of a barren ship. 

He shoves down his need to throw up everything he’s eaten in the past year.

It takes everything in him to push open the bathroom door. He exits with the grace of a baby Vyloo, stumbling slightly as he gains his bearings.

Nebula’s sitting in the common area when he walks in. She fiddles with her mechanical hand, twisting a few parts and tightening a few others. Peter looks away, feeling as if he’s intruding on something distinctly private. He focuses instead on the holo pad that he grabs from the table. He flicks through a few messages and missed calls before landing on his target — a list providing all known information regarding the Thanos supporters they’re about to kill.

They are a group of entitled assholes who pride themselves in being one of the last few ‘organizations’ tasked with the purpose of ‘spreading the Titan’s message and honoring his disposition’. They read more like a glorified cult than a threat to the galaxy, but if Peter’s learned anything over the years it’s to never underestimate anyone or any adversary. From what he can see, they’ve caused enough fatalities and chaos to warrant an early demise.

Simply speaking that asshole’s name in a positive manner would be enough for Peter; Nebula undoubtedly the same.

She stands up suddenly, flicking her wrist and producing a whir along with a quick, mechanical whipping noise. Nebula sheaths her sword and regards Peter with newfound scrutiny.

“Are you ready, Quill?” she asks, voice clipped and unwavering.

“Yes,” he replies, not offering any room for doubt. He taps the chip behind his ear once and feels as his mask materializes around his face. He taps it once more and allows it to retreat back into the chip once he’s sure it’s working fine.

Nebula nods, a swift tilt of her jaw up and down, before marching toward the gangway. Peter follows closely behind, leveling his breath and counting every step that he makes.

He gives himself a little pep-talk that comes in a suspiciously feminine voice. Gamora’s voice feels like velvet in his brain, soft and sweet, flowing through his mind like an angelic melody.

Peter’s eyes fill with a burning heat, enough to evaporate any tears that may gather there. He shakes away the sentiment wracking his body. _ This is for Gamora, this is for Gamora, _ he chants in his head like a mantra. He allows every piece of himself to gather the hatred he has for Thanos, the hatred he harbors for anyone who has ever sanctioned his crimes. The anger in him is so powerful that it nearly knocks him off his feet. One hand itches for Godslayer and the other longs for the spare blaster holstered on his left side.

They exit the Milano from the gangway and proceed to advance into the populated city. The sky is shadowed and starry, filled with ships and miners passing over their heads like shooting stars. He holds his breath and begins counting again. _ One… two… three… _

“I hate this place,” Nebula mutters. She has memories here too, recollections of a past that she seethes at, without question.

Knowhere.

_ ...four… five… six… _

Peter nods and clenches his fists as tight as they go. Nebula’s fixed stare levels on him, long and dissecting. He knows his silence is doing him no favors in appearing calm and collected, but he’s afraid he’ll open his mouth and a jumble of repressed thoughts will come tumbling out.

The atmosphere of the Celestial head is suffocating. He can almost feel the sweltering heat from the burning ground around him, vision glowing orange as he watches the last of the bubbles float off into the distance. He can hear Ace Frehley in the back of his asphyxiating thoughts, the words ‘_back in the New York groove’ _ staining his brain for five hours straight.

_ ...seven… eight… nine… _

“Quill?”

He comes back to himself and scrunches his eyes shut, blinking them open and watching as black dots swirl among the phantom flames. He takes a moment to appreciate that the city is no longer smoldering, having almost returned to its original state over the course of five years.

“Yeah, sorry.” He breathes out a choked laugh. _ “Yeah, _ this place sucks.” His laugh tapers off into a sputtered inhale, the air catching in his throat.

“This place has significance for you, too,” she states. He hopes his silence will be enough for her to drop the conversation completely, but she continues. “You were here before Titan, weren't you?”

_ “Yep.” _ Peter gulps, staring off into the distance. He ignores that sudden, high-pitched yelp of his voice that rings in the atmosphere around them. His once favorite blaster sits heavy against his side, feeling as if it’s burning a hole into the fabric of his pants.

Nebula regards him once over, squinting critically before following his gaze in the direction of the… _ place. _ It’s not very far from them now, visible from where they’ve landed the Milano.

She nods once. “The supporters have taken base in an underground basement of sorts. Knowhere remains as lawless as ever, so they have yet to encounter any resistance.”

She doesn't offer to reboard the ship or to turn around and head off to wherever their next target may be. There must be something she’s sensed about his demeanor, something that tells her that her best option is to distract him. He’s glad for it. There’s nothing that can be done to clear the stain this place has left in his brain, nothing that can be said to ease the pain that Knowhere has planted in his heart. Leaving now would accomplish nothing. His mind is constantly overrun with thoughts of Knowhere. In some sick sort of way, he’s always here.

A part of him has remained here ever since she left.

“Figures,” Peter says as he stares steely ahead. He refuses to let his vision waver over to the place where his life all but ended in a swirl of blazing hellfire. Nebula flickers her gaze towards the clearing, regarding the area quizzingly before searching for something in his expression.

It feels as if he owes her an explanation, what with the look she’s sending his way. Nebula has remained patient with him, enough so that he almost wants to share this particular torment with her. There is no telling how she’ll take it. Part of him fears the possibility that she will condemn him and confirm that this whole disaster is really of his own doing.

Peter sucks in a fiery breath and nearly drowns in the heaviness that settles in his lungs. Words crawl up his throat like a cluster of arachnids, weaving their webs like cages around his voice box. “That’s where… uh, where _I—_ _sorry, _where _we…_ _shit—”_

Nebula ignores his flustered attempt to speak and turns back towards the place he’s desperate to avoid. A wave of understanding crosses her features, and Peter holds his breath.

“That is where you attempted to kill her?”

Peter sputters. Tears spring to life in his eyes, coming so suddenly that one second he’s looking at Nebula and the next he’s staring at nothing but a blob of blue and black mixed together. He opens his mouth to speak, but only manages to stand there dumbfounded, mouth agape enough that the arachnids are sure to burst through.

“I know of it.” Nebula says unceremoniously, not noticing his affliction or simply choosing to ignore it for the time being.

Peter shakes his head, the loose tears taking the sudden movement as permission to make their escape. “How do — _ how?” _

Though his string of words are anything but articulate, she seems to understand where he’s getting at. “I overheard Mantis and Drax discussing it, though it seemed the two of them did not share the same sentiment.”

_ He follows after Drax, desperate to get his Zune back so he can return to the cockpit and come up with a plan that will actually get Gamora back. He’s screwed up, more than he has ever been before. Peter’s mind is going about 1000 light years a second, jumping to conclusions that are enough to make his bones rattle. _

_ “Ace Frehley is helping more than you are,” Peter says as he leans over the table. “We lost Gamora because of you.” He’s about to snap, five hours of obsessive worry riling up every nerve in his body. _

_ “We lost Gamora because you would not let me seize the moment!” Drax yells. Peter scoffs. If Drax hadn’t made as big of a commotion as he did, maybe Gamora would still be here and Peter wouldn’t be slowly losing his mind. “What do you care? You tried to kill her!” _

_ That statement hits him square in the chest, taking his breath away. He has just enough sense not to recoil and flinch away at Drax’s words. He takes the defensive route instead, unable to consider the fact that Drax isn’t wrong. He tried to kill the love of his life. _

_ He just tried to kill the love of his life. _

_ “She said I’d be saving the Universe!” he says, though he’s not sure that’s true either. _

He shakes the memory from his thoughts and turns to face her. “Nebula.” Peter chokes out, her name catching on his tongue like a plea. “I didn't…” He pauses, “She made me _ promise.” _

“Sounds like my sister.” Nebula’s lips curve slightly before falling into even more of a frown than before. “Gamora was determined to do everything in her power to keep Thanos from the Soul Stone.” She stops, looking at him and allowing something less noticeable in her expression to soften. “You did what she asked of you. She most certainly would have placed an attempt on her life with or without your help.”

Peter knows this. He knows that Gamora must have fought to the bitter end to ensure that Thanos never got his hands on the stone. He knows that Gamora would have done what she believed needed to be done whether he agreed to kill her or not, but Peter also knows that she _ wanted _ it to be him — needed it to be, lest she be unable to do it herself.

But Peter also _ knows _ the feeling of pressing down on the trigger. He knows the crushing weight of his nightmares in which bubbles are replaced by a blast and a sickening thud. Peter knows the true opposite, knows the look on her face when the blast never came, knows the way she looked at him with pure defeat and acceptance at the reality of their misfortunes.

_ And how can that not be his fault? _

“Gamora revealed the location of the Soul Stone to free me from Thanos’ torture. I was the one who was foolish enough to get captured.” She shakes her head, something shiny springing to life in her dark eyes. “This is not on you.”

Peter shakes his head and opens his mouth to respond. He needs her to understand all the reasons why this is not her fault. He has a whole list of reasons why the blame should be on him.

It’s too late for words though. Nebula slaps a quick palm over his mouth before he’s able to get anything out, and he is barely able to suppress a yelp at her sudden urgency. She doesn’t say anything, and Peter tries not to think back to his last conversation with Gamora on the Benatar.

Nebula grabs his wrist and pulls them into an alleyway. Her hand hovers over the hilt of her collapsed sword, her eyes darting back and forth around the perimeter. Peter dutifully keeps his mouth shut, staring down at his feet as they stumble into the empty alley.

She drops her arm and turns to face him. “Someone is following us,” she says. He furrows his brow in confusion and she rolls her eyes. “This planet is full of mercenaries that would love to have our heads on a stick.”

Peter scoffs and shrugs. “I’m used to people wanting me dead, _ so…” _

Nebula scowls. “You could not even imagine. The number of people who want me dead, and you by association, are too much for your thick skull to comprehend.”

“We better get going then.” Peter smirks, his mind still racing from all of the adrenaline that came as a result of their conversation.

He slaps his palm against the side of his head, feeling as the nano-particles materialize around him.

Nebula swats his hand as he pulls it away from the side of his head. “We have to keep a low profile.” Nebula bites, her voice harsh and uncompromising. “That mask is perhaps the only characteristic these criminals have to identify you with. I suggest you _ wait, _ unless you’d rather have _ ‘Star-Lord’ _ blow our cover.”

“Hey! People know Peter Quill, too!”

Nebula snarls. “They barely know _ you _ at all. Do not flatter yourself.”

Peter dematerializes his mask as they march on. He mutters a few expletives under his breath when Nebula looks away, but he doubts they go unheard.

“Where is this place anyway?” he asks after a few minutes of silence. He’s not sure he can handle another minute of quiet in this setting, the atmosphere sitting heavy over his head and threatening to burst his eardrums. The only notable sound he’s been able to focus on has been the crunch of earth below his feet and the soft incantation of repeated numbers in his mind.

“Not far,” she says, preoccupied with the task of scanning their surroundings.

_ “Not far. _ Gee, that helps.”

The silence returns just as quickly after that, somehow even more suffocatingly quiet than it was moments ago. Peter gulps and quickens his pace to walk alongside Nebula.

They approach a large building, one with broken railings jetting off in different directions and rust-covered pipes lining the corners of the structure. The property seems to loom over their heads, the roof blocking their view of the stars above and shading the night sky with its rickety overhang. He looks over at Nebula with an inquiring gaze, wondering just how she plans to go about this.

It goes without saying that Nebula is in charge when it comes to these missions that they're set to embark on. Nebula has made it abundantly clear that she does not trust his decision-making. If he's being honest, in all likelihood, she never would have trusted him to run these missions; even if he _ was _ of perfectly sound mind.

Yeah, he’s big enough to admit that he’s fallen off the rails a little bit.

Just a little bit.

“I will do the talking,” Nebula barks over her shoulder as they walk up the cracked, three-step set of stairs leading to the building’s entrance. “Just stand there and keep quiet. Do you understand me, Quill?”

Peter scoffs once they finally reach the door. “You’ve gotta trust me a little bit, Nebs.” He places his right palm against the hilt of Godslayer, fingers itching for a lick of blood. “Y’know you're really sidelining your talent here. I’ve got a way with words.”

“I mean it. _ Quiet,” _ she snarls.

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Sheesh. Got it. No talking.” He moves one of his arms to zip up his lips, acting as if he’s throwing the key yards away.

Nebula squints in apparent confusion before reaching towards her hip. She unsheathes her sword with grace, wrapping her palm fully around its hilt.

Peter moves to do the same, reaching for Godslayer and brandishing it with a flick of his wrist.

Godslayer stands at attention, appearing almost divine in the collapsing starlight. It looks like it could be a fallen star itself, gleaming and turning towards its skyward ancestors with a vengeful gaze. He wonders whether it would curse them for the fate it has received if it had a voice to speak with, whether it would scream out for its true possessor. _ Stars _know he would scream out with it if that were the case.

Nebula bypasses all usual formalities and makes their presence known with a swift kick to the door.

She rushes inside with her sword poised in front of her. Peter enters to her right, Godslayer accentuating his full-black attire — refusing to be ignored.

A lone man sits at the counter of whatever this building claims to be. He fidgets with something between his two hands before Nebula appears at his side in an instant, causing him to drop the device as she holds the blade of her sword against the flesh of his throat.

“We are looking for the Order of the Decimation,” Nebula says, increasing the pressure of the blade pressed to his neck while still withholding bloodshed.

The man’s yellow skin resembles a pale-green color beneath the harrowing fluorescent lighting. “You’ve got the wrong place,” he says calmly. His eyes fixate on Peter, flicking downwards only once to survey the blade beneath his chin.

Nebula swipes quick, leaving a thin sliver of milky yellow to drip down his throat. The man winces slightly before steeling himself again.

“I know where I am,” Nebula snaps. “Where is the Order of the Decimation?”

It doesn't take long for the man to speak up again, his voice rough like sandpaper against rugged wood. “Nebula, daughter of Thanos, notorious assassin, interim-Avenger, Guardian of the Galaxy,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. The man exhales a laugh and faces forward once more to stare into the depths of Peter’s irises. “Peter Quill, Star-Lord, leader of the Guardians of the Galaxy.” He pauses. “Boyfriend of the Deadliest Woman in the Galaxy.”

Nebula increases pressure, enough to block his windpipe from receiving the air it longs for.

“Or, rather, should I say former?” he rasps.

Peter sees red before rushing forward to meet the tip of Godslayer with the thin skin lining this scumbag’s heart. Nebula acts quicker, slicing a deep cut straight across the tender flesh at the center of his throat. The man’s words die with him, punctuated by the gargling of yellow-green blood in his vile mouth.

“He knew us?” Peter rambles. “They know us?”

Nebula leaves his question unanswered as she bends down to retrieve the device the man had dropped. She turns it over in her hands before slapping it down onto the table and shattering it with one punch from her mechanical hand.

Peter looks up wide-eyed as she speed walks past the body and over towards him. “Communication device,” she says simply. “If they did not know us before, they certainly know us _ now. _ We have to move fast.”

Peter scouts the room for a staircase, a lever, anything that could reveal the location of their hidden underground base. Nebula joins him, throwing multiple tables and cabinets aside to search for the same thing.

He turns back towards the body, watching the way the man’s head tilts backwards in his seat, revealing the mangled flesh at his throat. Peter steps beside him, pushing his slack body off of the seat and letting it fall against the floor with a resounding smack.

_ “Quill—” _

Peter reaches below the desk, hoping to find what he knows is sure to be there. He runs his hand along the bottom of the desk until his palm makes contact with a small button that protrudes from the side.

The words fizzle out in Nebula’s throat once a panel of flooring retreats back into the wall, revealing a staircase spanning all the way down into a pitch black abyss. She steps closer to the entrance, staring down into the darkness with a slight grin.

“Found it!” Peter says, hopping away from the table and placing himself by Nebula’s side. He too stares down into the blackness, taking a deep breath and tightening his grip on Godslayer.

Nebula silences him with a swift jab to his side before beginning her descent into the darkness. Peter follows closely behind, holding onto Gamora’s sword as if it’s the only thing tethering him to this mortal plane.

The stairs creak and moan at the assault of their combined weight, the wood warping and swaying like a tranquil pool of rippling water. In any other situation, the even and consistent tap beneath their feet would have calmed him. Now, the noise sends nothing but harsh beats — the side of a boat colliding with a stormy wave.

The basement smells of copper and pungent metal when they enter it. Peter has the sense not to immediately cover his nose to block the stench, instead only slightly restraining the intensity of the breath that he takes in. 

It doesn't take long to see where it’s coming from.

Bodies. Lots of them.

“What the fuc—”

Nebula yells out a cry of rage before jabbing her blade into the first unmoving Thanos supporter. The corpse makes no protest at the assault, perfectly still and _ dead. _

_ Dead. _

Peter is two inches from slamming his fist into the concrete wall when a muffled grunt blares over the sound of blood rushing between his ears. He walks, or _ runs _ really, over to the sound, and suddenly he’s standing over the twitching body of a Kree man who is practically banging on death’s door.

“What is this?” Peter asks the man, kneeling down to fit the sharp edge of Godslayer beneath his chin. It’s an empty threat, what with the way the man’s own blade sits lodged in his stomach, but Peter’s hand refuses to go anywhere else.

“We would rather die for our secrets than allow them to become corrupted by the likes of you,” the man croaks out. “You have no will of your own… no means to submit to the _ truth.” _

“Oh, really? And what’s that?”

“That you are as good as _ dead _ anyway.”

Peter punctuates the end of his sentence by ripping the man’s blade from his abdomen, jarring something that surely isn't meant to be jarred. Godslayer, begging for its own taste of justice, slices quick and leaves the man decorated with a necklace of blue. 

“What are you doing?” Nebula hisses. “That man was our last chance of finding out what they are doing here!”

Peter gestures wildly towards the man’s steadily bleeding body before looking back up at Nebula. Peter’s sure he is a gruesome sight, the presence of splattered blue blood freckled upon his cheeks. He runs his sleeve across his face and feels as the liquid only manages to spread across his skin.

“Do you _ see _ him, Nebula? He was practically dead already.” He sighs and pushes himself away from the body, moving to kneel a few feet away. “If they were willing to kill themselves to keep whatever they’re doing a secret, we couldn’t have done much to get it out of him anyway.”

Nebula sighs, either from defeat or from refusal to continue the argument any further. “The man upstairs warned them of our arrival,” she says. She pulls her blade out of the supporter’s flesh and glares down at the bodies. “They are hiding something.”

“What did he mean? _ You are as good as dead anyway,” _ Peter repeats, testing out the words on his tongue.

“That is what we are going to have to find out,” Nebula snarls, sheathing her sword and turning to march up the staircase in one fell swoop.

* * *

His seat on the Milano feels like he could be sitting in a time traveling device. It feels the same as it always has. He should know. He has memories spanning all the way back to when he worked on customizing the M-ship while he was still a Ravager. 

Sitting here now feels like he’s been thrown years and years backwards, back to a time when things were so confusingly simple. 

Hindsight may be 20/20 but it’s also a bitch.

Peter takes in the pleasure of steering his ship with his own hands before putting the Milano into autopilot for the night. He doesn’t get up to move, instead leaning backwards into his seat. He allows his eyes to shelter themselves from the light beneath his heavy eyelids. 

That lasts about 10 seconds before Nebula practically jumps into the co-pilot seat beside him. His eyes jolt open and he straightens his posture before looking over at her. She pays him no mind, glaring intently at something written on her holopad.

“Uh, hi?” Peter says, trying and failing to catch a glimpse at the words she’s scanning.

Nebula furrows her brow but does not bother to look up. “Do you need something?” she asks; insincerely at that. 

“No — Nope…” Peter says quickly, looking out at the stars before glancing back at the holo for a millisecond.

It’s enough for her to notice regardless. She drops the holo in her lap and finally turns to face him. “What, Quill? Spit it out.”

Peter shakes his head and wonders where he should look. His eyes flicker between the idle pad and Nebula’s face, deciding to stick with the latter. The intimidating look she levels at him is enough to shake him from his roaring thoughts. “I— Just… Did you find anything? About the Order of the… whatever they’re deciding to call themselves?”

“The Order of the _ Decimation, _” Nebula clarifies. “The same decimation that killed you and most of your team. Are you familiar with that one?”

Peter gulps. “Yeah. That.” He runs his hands down the fabric of his pants. “Got anything to help us find the rest of those dicks? Y’know… assuming there are more of them out there.”

Nebula picks the holopad up once more and scans the text again. “They are bigger than we once thought. They have subgroups spanning across this whole galaxy.”

Peter’s eyes grow wide as the truth begins to settle in. “The Order of the Decimation… does that mean they’re trying to, y’know—”

“Turn half the population to dust again? Yes.”

His breath is snatched away from him again. He clutches onto the fabric covering his legs and can feel a phantom sting in his palms. It feels as if his lungs have turned into ash, the rest of his body waiting to follow their example. “So they’re looking for the stones. Is that what you’re reading about right now? Should I even ask who you had to kill to get that information?”

“No. You should not ask,” Nebula deadpans. “They are trying to get the stones, yes, but I do not think that will be much of an issue.” She’s startlingly unfazed by all of this as she scrolls through the blocks of text.

“You don’t think that a giant group of Thanos sympathizers trying to get their hands on the _ freakin’ infinity stones _ are an issue? Tell me that I’m not the only one who sees that this is a giant fucking problem.” Peter can feel the only control he has begin to slip away from him.

“It is entirely doubtful that they will have anyone on their side powerful enough to wield all six stones,” Nebula explains as if it is the most obvious thing in the Universe. “The odds of them actually being able to find all six stones are even slimmer. The stones from this timeline have been reduced to mere atoms. Besides, Thanos was searching for them my entire life.”

“Right,” Peter says, trying to calm himself with a deep inhale. _ “Right, _ but they still need to be taken out regardless.” His skin itches at the idea of them roaming the galaxies without punishment.

“And that is now officially our mission,” Nebula says. “We will hunt them down.”

He’s not sure how to feel about that. Their mission suddenly has purpose. Their previous plan to scour the cosmos for anyone dumb enough to still side with Thanos has been all but thrown out the goddamn window. It’s real now. They have a lead to follow. Someone to kill.

Someone to blame.

“Can I ask you something?” Peter says.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

“What are you going to do after all this?” Peter needs to know. He needs to know that there will be an after, that reality will still exist even if his has completely unraveled.

Nebula cocks her brow and turns her head only slightly in his direction. It’s almost as if she can’t decide whether she should keep her eyes on the text or force herself to catch a glance at the desperation on his face. She must decide to humor him, placing the holopad down onto her lap, training her eyes into two thin slits.

“What will _ you _do after all of this, Quill?” Nebula asks back, pulling a one-eighty on him.

Peter shakes his head. “Not fair. I asked you first.” His voice is flat, his head pressed back into the pilot’s seat. There’s a distinct hollowness in his chest tonight, spreading up and throughout his veins like the Power Stone had, charting a map within his veins — embedding itself in the synapses in his brain, burrowing into the essence of his being.

Nebula shrugs, stiff in nature but a shrug nonetheless. “I will do whatever there is to be done.”

“Well. Seems like you got it all figured out,” Peter jokes. Even still, it seems like Nebula has some clarity that he’s lacking. She has five years under her belt, but five years come and go and time still goes on. Peter doesn’t know how to move on. He doesn’t even know where he’d start.

“Stop focusing on what you will do later and start _ doing _ now. Why do you need a plan?”

“You’re telling me that you’ve never once thought about what you’ll do once the work dies down? I know you aren’t used to it Nebs, but one day there will be downtime. One day the work will end and I’ll have _ nothing.” _

“You have no idea what _ nothing _ is, Quill. You have no idea how far that concept can go. You hardly have _ nothing. _”

Peter cringes. It’s moments like these that he almost forgets everything Nebula has gone through, everything she’s been forced to endure. She knows what it’s like to have everything stripped from her—her body, her mind, her last shred of hope. She knows what it’s like to have nothing. Peter really should keep his mouth shut.

“I have to make a plan for the future. I have to have something to go to, something to work for.” He shakes his head and scrunches his eyes tight.

Nebula’s eyes are locked in position now, unwavering from his patheticness. Peter’s eyes remain idle beneath his eyelids, afraid to face her scrutiny. He bites his tongue and wills everything to stop.

Silence overtakes the Milano again. There’s a heavy drum rolling beneath their feet, a reminder of the continuity that Peter so desperately wishes would stop. The steady whir of the engine reminds him of all that is in store, the hundreds of thousands of uncharted miles ahead of him, the utterly empty life he will be forced to follow. There is no end in sight. Only miles upon miles, days upon days, silence upon silence.

“After I watched Thor kill my father, Rocket and I boarded the Benatar,” Nebula says suddenly. “We drifted in deep space for two weeks once we realized we had no direction to turn to. No one to _ kill. _”

Peter’s breath hitches.

“I thought about who I would kill if I was given the chance. My answer was Thanos every time,” Nebula explains what Peter already knows. “My entire life I had only that one wish. My only desire was to watch my father bleed out at my own hand. I wanted him to beg for mercy only to stick my dagger into his neck.” Nebula stops, holding something back within herself. “I wondered whether it was worth it anymore, now that that was taken from me.”

“And?” Peter says softly. “How did you deal with it?”

Nebula inhales. “We joined the Avengers. We traveled planet to planet, galaxy to galaxy, trying to restore what my father broke. The nights were silent but we had places to be, galaxies to guard,” she says, quirking her lip a little at that. Peter finds it amusing as well but keeps his mouth shut. “But Thanos was dead and Gamora was… gone. Everything I had ever wished to fulfill in my life was taken from me. I do not think I cared whether I lived or died in that moment. There was no enemy to slay that would grant me anything more than temporary satisfaction.” 

She seems almost guilty for a moment. “For a while we gave up. We gave up trying to get all of you back. It was not until that little man appeared that we had direction again.”

Peter sighs. “You guys didn’t know it was possible before that. There’s nothing you could have…”

He comes to a dead stop once he sees the glare Nebula levels on him. She’s not looking for reassurance here. There’s a point she’s getting at, some lesson to be learned. 

Peter tries not to let the shock show on his face. Nebula? _ Caring enough to teach him a lesson? _

She starts again. “My purpose did not show itself until five years after I was sure there was no direction left for me to follow. Imagine if I would have given up the day that Thanos destroyed the stones. The day he was _ killed.” _

It’s clear where she’s going with this now. “So you’re saying it doesn’t matter what my plans are. My purpose or whatever might come one day and I’ll have to be around to see it.” He sighs again. “I already promised you I’d try not to die.”

“It makes no difference whether you are alive or dead if you have already given up,” Nebula says, and of course his promise to stay alive is not enough for them. 

Tears start to burn at his eyes like liquid fire but he manages to keep them back. “Look Nebs, I’m sorry but—” He chokes on his words, “—alive is about all you’re gonna get from me right now. I can’t be anything more than that…”

“It won’t be enough,” Nebula says. “You will have to learn to be more than that. It will not matter how hard you try to survive if you have already given up.”

Peter squeezes his fists shut and relishes in the sting of his fingernails. His eyes remain watery as he looks deep into Nebula’s.

“Help me,” he says. “I don’t know what else to do.”

He swears that Nebula looks sorrowful for a second. He would have missed it if he blinked, but it was there, unmistakable as ever.

“You have to find the one motivation you have, the one emotion that is the strongest, and cling to it. You have to let it consume you,” she whispers.

_ “It will break you. It will eat you from the inside out until there is nothing left.”_

She has to know what it would mean for him if he follows that advice. She has to know what she’s asking of him, letting the strongest emotion in him flourish. She has to know that doing that would mean turning him into a shell of nothing except utter hatred. It would be so easy to let go. There’s a little taste of insanity in his reach, so compelling that he yearns for it. It would be so easy to let go and dedicate the rest of his sorry life avenging Gamora’s spirit. There is no purpose for him beyond this, no man showing up on his doorstep with promises of a way out. 

_ Does she know what she’s asked of him? _

With a shaky inhale out, something snaps in him. It’s like the wall holding back all of the rage inside of him has taken a direct hit. It’s like he’s flipped a switch somewhere deep inside.

He feels it the second he lets go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy.
> 
> Dark!Peter is upon us.
> 
> As always, please leave kudos, reviews, or drop in your favorite quotes!


	7. It's a Chance

It’s liberating, in a way.

He flicks through the holopad, fingers hovering only momentarily as his eyes scan across the screen, jumping from mark to mark. His eyes burn with fervor as he identifies names from faces, places from planets, victims upon victims, and scum among men.

He chews on his lip as he scrolls. It has to be hours into the night cycle by now, with even Nebula remaining absent from the cockpit. The Milano’s internal lighting is dimmed and set to night mode, the main source of lighting being the stars ahead and the burning blue glare that is his holo.

The screen flickers to black suddenly, showcasing his own reflection in the idle screen. Peter’s heart skips a beat, believing for a moment that his face is yet another mugshot among the supporters of Thanos he’s been researching for the past few hours. He gets over his initial shock and muses the oily mess of hair upon his head, paling in comparison to his blank, red eyes. He notes dimly how the holo’s no-battery icon flashes condescendingly in his face, as if shaming him for how he’s chosen to spend his night.

He drops the holo onto the console and leans back in the pilot seat, rubbing the need for sleep from his eyes. A yawn makes its way onto his face, unexpected but not surprising, like most things these days. 

The Milano is set on autopilot, taking them to a moon said to be filled with many of the assholes affiliated with the Order of the Decimation. He leans forward, looking over at the screen listing their current coordinates. In the upper right corner of the screen, an image of the d’asted moon torments him from afar.

He hears a ghost of a former conversation. Rocket’s typical pyromaniacal ways sneak back up on him, something about blowing up moons and Gamora’s clearcut refusal.

_ “No one’s blowing up moons,” _Peter thinks to himself, bitterly, annoyed with the way even innocuous memories come and fill his entire body with grief. He notices how his fist has curled around one of the Milano’s weapon mechanics, fingers very nearly setting off the ship’s defensive protocols.

It’s been days since their disaster of a mission, something that is more of a common occurrence than not, it seems. And it’s been days since Peter decided to…

Let go?

No, that’s not it.

It’s like he flipped a switch, except it’s not, because flipping a switch is instant. Flipping a switch brings instantaneous darkness to a room, an instant change, no slower than a blink.

This is different because, unlike a switch, the pressure leading him to this exact point has accumulated for days, weeks, _ years _even. It’s not a switch, it’s the same ever present emotions that have finally been given the power to show themselves. Namely, one emotion.

_ Anger. _

Peter has never been more angry in his _ life. _There are moments, flickers in time of instances where his anger was near blinding, of course, Ego and Thanos among them.

Instead, this time it’s like all of the anger he’s stored away through decades and decades of healing have burst through the floodgates, all pooling in his stomach like a raging inferno. He doesn’t think he would be able to hold it back anymore if he tried.

Like he said, it’s liberating, in a sadistic and masochistic kind of way.

He lets go of the weapon and jumps up, staggering away from the cockpit with wild eyes. His fingers tingle with the thought of grabbing back onto the controls, sending the Milano crashing straight into the moon upon their eventual arrival.

Peter blinks twice. He can’t do that. There are innocents involved.

He shakes his head and squints his eyes, noting the few hours he has left until the day cycle. He questions whether he should try to get some sleep, deciding against it the moment the thought crosses his brain.

Peter has to admit, it would be nice to ease some of the fogginess hugging the corners of his vision, the thick haze clouding his brain. Little black dots that he hadn’t noticed previously dance around him, crossing his line of sight and throbbing behind his eyes.

Before he has time to reconsider it, he’s making his way over to his bunk. He tiptoes quietly to avoid waking up Nebula. _ Stars _know she’d give him nothing but hell for it.

Peter lies down, legs constricted in semi-tight jeans. He has enough sense to at least remove his belt, leaning his head down onto his pillow and closing his eyes for the first time in _ days, _fully aware of the futileness of this attempt.

He figures he’ll at least get a couple of hours in.

* * *

When he wakes up the first thing he notices is that he can’t breathe.

He pushes himself up off of his stomach, making it so that he’s kneeled over on his hands and knees. He notes how his hands sit in idle water, the liquid rippling slightly at his movements, reflecting a vibrant orange sky above him.

In the back of his head, he’s aware that this is a dream, knows for a fact that it is. With one final push he gets himself off of his hands, taking to sitting back on his heels in the shallow water.

He allows his gaze to wander across the orange landscape, briefly studying a pillared structure of some sort before glancing back at his hands.

_ Small, _he notes, dumbly. 

Far off in the distance he’s able to make out another small figure, hair pulled up in two magenta braids.

“Gamora?” his prepubescent voice squeaks.

Nothing.

He tries again.

_ Silence. _

He—

It’s Nebula who wakes him up.

She’s halfway leaned over his bunk, face twisted in an expression even Peter cannot read, his aforementioned expertise in assessing Nebula thrown out the window.

Peter opens his mouth to speak, notices the distinct dryness of it, and gapes for a second as he wracks his brain for a proper sentence. He notices how his palms are wrought in sweaty fists, his heart beating along to the tempo of a thousand drum solos. 

His left cheek also kind of stings. Nebula’s version of an alarm clock, probably.

“You were screaming,” says Nebula, eyes pensive and lost. They’re both unsure how to go about this. Peter gulps and hopes that she’ll just drop it.

He sits up and decides to pretend as if it never happened, even though memories of his nightmare are starting to resurface in his head. He swallows back bile as he recounts flickers of a barren, orange landscape and a little Gamora…

He’ll make sense of it later.

For now he can’t think about it any longer, can only get up and keep himself moving. He throws his legs over the side of his bunk and shakily gets onto two feet, bracing his weight against the wall as he begins to sway.

Nebula cocks a skeptical brow in his direction. 

“I’m fine,” he croaks out before he’s able to finally center himself. His dream has managed to throw him off more than usual.

“Right,” Nebula says. She gives him a once over before turning on her heel towards the flight deck. Her absence gives him enough time to strip himself of his shirt and replace it with a light grey one from the bag of clothes he had packed from the Benatar. He figures the jeans can stay, sliding his floor strewn belt into the loops and fastening it with haste.

Peter gives a quick glance towards his bag of belongings and grabs for his jacket which, upon removal, reveals the presence of one of his most prized possessions.

He doesn’t remember packing his Zune.

Peter looks away from the device and bites down on his inner lip, bringing forth the faintest taste of blood. He shrugs the jacket over his shoulders and throws his crumpled, sleep-wrinkled shirt into the bag, covering the Zune from his sight. Rocket must’ve thrown it in there without him knowing. Sounds like something he’d pull.

The sound of Nebula calling him throws him from his thoughts, and he’s making his way over to the cockpit before he even knows that his legs are moving.

“We are approaching,” she says, glancing at him once more to gauge his awareness. “A few more clicks,” she amends, her way of telling him to use this time to collect himself. Peter nods.

Godslayer is freshly cleaned and collapsed by his belt. His blasters are completely absent now.

They really only weigh him down anyway.

His dream has his head spinning a thousand miles an hour, but a few deep breaths and refocusing his energy back on his main driving force is enough to keep him somewhat steady. Anger wells up in his chest again, eerily similar to where his powers had accumulated on Ego. It’s a physical feeling as much as it is emotional, snatching his breath and burning through his veins.

“I hope you remember the _ plan, _Quill,” Nebula nearly hisses. “No more going in blind.”

He wishes he could find humor in the situation. Months ago he would have gone on his usual spiel about how he comes up with the best plans. Peter wonders if it’s really that terrible that he’s taking this so seriously, not willing to crack jokes regarding it. It’s a good thing that he’s so invested in this. It has to be.

_ The plan. _It’s not really so much of a plan as it is Nebula’s strategic way of mapping the entrances and exits to the supporters’ base. Peter has the map memorized forwards and backwards. He’s memorized every single one of Nebula’s scribbled notes, every circling of the best possible movements to help them gain the upper hand. Peter has taken all of Nebula’s plans into account, memorizing each minute detail.

“I’m not an amateur,” he says, no bite in his tone but no trace of humor either.

She must not completely trust his reasoning right now, or just wants to restate her plans for her own peace of mind. “We are here to retrieve the datastrips containing their plans and give them to Nova Prime. We will plant the bombs in the main corridor before we exit and detonate them _ after,_” she says. _ “After _we exit the building, Quill. Not before. Is that clear?”

“Got it.” Peter sighs, exasperation seeping into his tone. “No blowing us up,” he deadpans.

He’s a little surprised that Nebula gave him the extra detonator to begin with. The surprise wears off and replaces itself with something much more sinister once he realizes why that might be.

Backup. In case she’s unable to.

“Do not get defensive. I wouldn’t put it past you,” she says, a little hostile sounding. “I want them dead as much as you, Quill, but we are outnumbered. Datastripts first. Bombs after. The only thing we have is the element of surprise.”

“No stabbing?” Peter asks in mock surprise, though he knows the answer and their plan of attack like the back of his own hand.

Nebula shakes her head in disapproval and turns back around to face the control console. She sets the Milano up to make the clicks and grants him a small look over her shoulder. “Stabbing for self-defense only.” It looks like it hurts more for her to say that than it is for him to hear it.

Peter gives a curt nod and sits in the copilot seat. They’re approaching the moon now, slightly bigger than Terra’s own, at least from what he remembers. His blood boils upon seeing it.

The urge to crash the Milano straight into their place of refuge is almost too intense to control. Hundreds of impulsive thoughts race through his head as they come closer and closer to the surface. He digs his fingernails into his palms and allows the pain to restrain him.

The Milano lands in a popular ship docking site on the moon. Civilians trot around the city, entering in and out of businesses, enjoying their merry little lives without a clue as to the atrocities occurring in their own backyards. Peter both curses and envies their ignorance. He catches sight of a small child wedged between her two parents, gripping tightly onto their hands as she skips along.

He gulps. Suddenly, he’s glad he decided against kamikaze-ing the Milano.

Peter’s whole existence sits heavy in the back of his head as he exits the ship with Nebula at his side, completely absent from present reality. He really should be getting more sleep. There isn’t a single part of him that doesn’t feel muddied and confused. He squeezes his eyes shut and for a second all he sees is bright orange.

“Quill?” Nebula questions. Damnit. Has she been talking this whole time?

“I’m good,” he says instinctively, hand clenching around the Godslayer’s hilt as he reopens his eyes. “Uh… sorry.” He shakes his head. “What were you saying?”

“I was saying…” Nebula pauses, something inquisitive in her gaze. “We have a little less than a half-mile to walk.” She squints at him. “Are you going to collapse before we get there?”

He’s a little concerned at how long it takes for her words to register in his head. He spends a good couple of seconds gaping at her before he shakes the fogginess from his brain. “What? No, I-- I’m good. I’m prepared for this,” Peter says, managing to get his voice back to Captain Mode, sounding more confident than he feels. He focuses again on his rage, letting the intensity of his emotions ground him once more.

“Because if you are not—”

“I said I’m _ fine, _Nebula,” he snaps, hand clenching the collapsed Godslayer with such force he’s surprised it hasn’t broken.

She ignores him, not without making sure to fix him with a quick look that screams, _ ‘never speak to me that way again’. _He pushes away the rising guilt and forces his palm to release its grip on the sword. Nebula doesn’t deserve his anger, he reminds himself. He chews on the inside of his lip, pinching his left cheek with his canines.

Peter doesn’t mind the silence this time. The migraine pulsing beneath his skull demands it anyway, and he’s not so sure he won’t just lash out again if he’s spoken to.

They walk for what feels like hours, though Peter knows it hasn’t been more than five minutes, tops. He imagines the feeling of stabbing one of their enemies through their eyes, wondering how amazing it would be to watch the sons of bitches fall to the floor in roaring agony. He becomes lost in that image for a second, smirking slightly to himself as they continue forward.

Peter manages to fall further back into his daydream, utterly unashamed at how twisted his thoughts are becoming. He feels nothing of his current environment, existing only in that space in his head.

Then there is another flash of orange. A hazy, dwindling afterimage of a pillared structure.

Peter stops in his tracks and stares straight forward as the image fades from his sight. His vision warps and strains as if he has just looked away from a bright light, and Peter squeezes his eyes shut in three short pulses before his sight decides to come back to him. Dread pools in his stomach as he looks up at Nebula, only paces away, her back towards him as she walks along. He wonders for a second whether he has completely lost it.

It makes sense. He’s losing it. His mind can’t accept reality and it’s finally rebelling against him.

“Quill!” Nebula barks, turning around to face him after noticing how he has stopped. He opens his mouth to respond, gaping like a fish insistent on biting down onto the same hook intended to kill it. “Do not say that you are fine,” she says, sighing deeply to herself, probably wondering why she ever agreed to any of this to begin with. “It is clear that you are not. But we don’t have the time.” 

Her expression twists at that. _ Is that guilt? _

Peter shakes his head and walks the extra feet to catch up with her. He considers telling the truth, explaining everything that’s happened since he woke up, but it feels oddly vulnerable to explain something that is likely no more than a few weirdly vivid memories of a nightmare. She already had to slap him awake because he was _ screaming _in his sleep. 

He does decide that she deserves some sort of explanation, maybe just a watered down and less vulnerable sounding version of the truth. “I haven’t been sleeping enough, I guess,” he allows. “I can do this, Nebula. I promise.” That much is true. He’s _ overly _prepared for this. Peter knows that this is what he wants to do all the way down to the very core of his being.

Nebula sighs. “Why can’t you just be like Rocket and shoot things when you’re grieving?” she asks with a drone. “You’re so high-maintenance. Needed a whole revenge mission.”

Peter snorts a little and tries to stifle the laugh growing at the back of his throat. Nebula looks over at him and allows her lips to curl into a slight smile. For a moment, they share a look that shares more than words ever could, a silent understanding, a look that shows the both of them that they are not as different as they might seem. It’s over as soon as it happens, but Peter feels as if he has somehow connected with Nebula in a way that he never has. He can’t help feeling a blossoming kinship towards her. Like a sister maybe, not unlike the way he views Mantis.

“I’ve got a flair for the dramatics, what can I say?” Peter explains, letting what’s left of his laugh to fizzle out into the half-hearted comeback. He’s still not feeling like himself.

It's clear that Nebula has reached her emotional quota for the day by the time they arrive at the base, her voice clipped of all sentiment, nothing but business now that their enemies are in arms reach. Peter looks up at the building as Nebula begins to speak.

“You know the plan. Let’s go.”

* * *

It’s not hard to find a weak spot in their security. 

Nebula’s possible entrance points ended up not being false leads after all, and gaining access into the base almost seemed too easy for Peter’s liking. Regardless, they made it inside with no issues in sight.

Nebula is nearly inside the base’s main control center when Peter sees the first Thanos supporter. The man spots them quickly, and right before he’s able to scream for backup, Peter jumps forward. He ceases the man by the neck, swiftly brandishing Godslayer and ramming the blade into his chest. The knife meets flesh, soft and bending at his will, and makes a satisfying squish. Peter twists the blade in his hands, sinking it deeper and deeper before jerking the shiny metal back towards him, withdrawing the blade with a barely concealed smirk. 

He slumps forward in Peter’s grasp, going limp and falling to the floor as soon as Peter withdraws the bloodied blade. Peter beams at the steady drops that flow from the tip of Godslayer, dark enough that the blood almost looks black in the darkened warehouse.

Peter flicks some of the rancid goop off of Godslayer and peers over his shoulder, catching Nebula’s gaze out of the corner of one eye. Her face is wrought with something hard to decipher, but Peter ignores it as he turns to enter the control center with her.

She moves swiftly and leans forward over the computer’s mainframe, reaching into her side pocket to remove two large strips.

“Keep watch, Quill,” she reminds him, continuing to work on retrieving the data needed to reveal what plans the Order of the Decimation had all along.

Blowing up their headquarters would be a devastating blow (Peter inwardly suppresses his mirth at the unintended pun), enough of a step backwards that any hope for their organization would die along with the supporters residing here. The datastrips themselves are useless in destroying these particular a-holes, but it seems that no one is willing to chance it. Especially not Xandar. They suffered enough at the hands of Thanos.

And, _ fuck, _Peter doesn’t blame them. He’ll do whatever he can to make sure nothing remotely similar to the last five years happens ever again.

Peter stands by the control room’s main entrance, scoping the surrounding area while keeping himself out of sight. To his surprise, the hallway is utterly empty, save for the lone man strewn across the floor in a bloodied heap. He wonders what they must be doing that would require they leave their data exposed and vulnerable. If this isn’t a trap then it must be something _ big. _

He must have spoken too soon, because suddenly three large Kree men come rushing towards them, faces twisted in undeniable rage.

Peter has just enough time to alert Nebula of their presence before revealing himself from behind the door. He hears Nebula’s typing become more frantic as he levels his gaze on the first Kree man to meet his eyes.

The next few minutes are a blur. It’s as if he has been transported back onto the Benatar, feet planted on the mat as he tries to evaluate Nebula’s next move.

Peter hardly registers it when he slashes the first man’s neck. It’s a bit deeper than he intended, specks of dark blue blood spraying across his forehead in a sickly stream. 

He knows the telltale smack of a blaster against his temple, remembering nostalgically how much harder it is to remain on your feet after being hit on the head with one. He straightens himself up anyway, fending off his dizziness and kneeing the man in the stomach, sending the metal straight towards his midsection once he’s distracted by that pain.

The third man comes unexpectedly, crashing into Peter and pinning him down against the concrete beneath them.

_ It’s a chance, _part of him is ashamed to think. He could so easily allow himself to be speared in the heart, has the opportunity actually towering over him, the one way out of this whole mess. It’d be over so quick. No fuss, no final words. Just one final gasp of breath and he’d fade away blissfully.

Peter sends his momentum towards the Kree’s upper body, flipping them over and using his force to immobilize the man. He chokes back a frustrated scream as Gamora’s blade enters and exits the Kree’s body.

He wonders how different things would be if he was a man who did not stay true to his promises.

Nebula rushes out only a moment later, revealing two datastrips that she instantly shoves back into her pockets. Her eyes trace over the four unmoving bodies that decorate the floor, flickering to Peter at last.

“Took you long enough,” Peter says through a split lip, feeling the blossoming headache at the side of his head when he speaks. He wants to smile, almost, looking around at what has happened here, almost as if he hasn’t been in his body at all until this moment. Something washes over him; not pride, but something that satisfies a dark part of him that he hasn’t wanted to look at before now.

Nebula doesn’t as much gasp as she does quickly whir in a considerable amount of air, noticing something that Peter has somehow missed. He looks down at himself and spots a medium-sized splotch of red, growing outwards at the lower right corner of his light grey shirt.

_ Oh, _he thinks numbly. He’s strangely detached from that pain, deciding that the next best course of action is to stumble up and onto his feet.

Nebula very nearly looks as if she’s about to protest, but the sound of approaching supporters only increases in volume every second, and they’re in no position to stop now. It suddenly gets _ very _loud, and Peter realizes with a sharp pang that his senses have been dulled and have finally decided to make a full appearance. His vision also takes a moment to unblur, but when it does, he’s able to see the extent of the mess he has made, every corpse that lies below him now.

He coughs, ignores the way that burns, and looks at Nebula, pupils blown wide.

“Ship. Now,” she says.

Peter shakes his head. “But the-- the supporters, Nebula.” He squints down at the floor, brow furrowed in thought. “We gotta-- Bombs.”

“There is no time, Quill,” she hisses, looking down at the end of the hall and back at Peter’s injury. “You’ve been stabbed,” she deadpans, as if she’s annoyed that he hasn’t mentioned it or done anything to acknowledge its presence. It sounds as if she’s the one informing him of that fact, casually, like she’s explaining the weekly weather forecast to a child.

He almost laughs. Kinda laughs. _ Fuck, _that hurts.

As much as he wants to double over in hysterical laughter, the possibility that these supporters are not going to face a much deserved death begins to weigh on him. There has to be another way.

From their left, two more supporters make an appearance. Nebula snarls and wields two electric daggers, fighting between the woman and man with apparent ease.

Peter does a double take, looking ahead at Nebula and slowly behind him, gauging how fast he can make his escape. He’s bound to be slower, he knows that much, but maybe while she’s occupied…

Peter takes off down the hall at a half sprint, half dragging-his-feet-across-the-floor as he descends deeper into the building. “Main corridor, main corridor,” he mumbles to himself as he scouts around, Godslayer trembling in his unsteady hand. He tries to picture the map in his head, attempting to mentally search for where he knows a bright red circle was placed.

“Come on, come on, remember! Remember, Quill!” he groans nowhere above a whisper.

Nebula approaches from behind, grabbing his shoulder unexpectedly and whipping him around to face her. “What are you, crazy?” she hisses with venom lacing her tongue. “What is this even about anymore? Do you wish to be an assassin? Is that what you are now?”

Peter goes silent. He doesn’t know _ what _he is.

“Help me place the bombs already,” he says, voice flat. He removes two cylinderical objects from the inner pocket of his jacket and sends her a pleading look.

Nebula takes them into her grasp, looking as if she has to restrain from crushing them with her own palm. “Fine,” she bites, moving forward only a couple of steps and placing the bombs.

“Of course,” Peter groans. He guesses this place does look kind of familiar.

“They’ve regrouped somewhere towards our only available exit,” Nebula says. She holds up her detonator. “I hope this was not your big plan.”

Peter reels back in shock. “No, I was not going to blow myself up,” he says. She doesn’t need to know that he practically prayed for death at the hands of the Kree just moments ago, how fifteen inches upwards was all it would’ve taken to answer that prayer. 

“Then what was your big plan, Quill? Take on a whole army by yourself?”

Peter flusters. He feels the telltale warmth of his cheeks burning red. “I- I didn—”

“You didn’t think. That's the problem,” Nebula says, grabbing him by the upper arm and forcefully dragging them along. “You don't think.”

Peter tries to remove himself from her grip, feeling the ache in his side demanding attention. “Wait… wait. Nebula. What are we doing?” he asks as she drags him along. His arm throbs where her hand is placed, squeezing hard enough that his muscle jerk in protest.

“We have to fight them off long enough to get outside and detonate the building,” Nebula explains coolly. “You are injured, so they will have the advantage, but all we need to do is clear a pathway.”

“Oh, is that _ all?_” Peter asks in disbelief. This is all his fault. It’s all his.

Nebula lets go of his arm and brandishes her weapons once more. “I have trained you well, have I not?” she asks, though she looks confident enough to not need an answer from him. The exit becomes clear to him now, surrounded by Kree, Chitauri, and a plethora of other, mean faced sons of bitches that he can’t be bothered to name. He strengthens his grip on Godslayer and poises it in battle ready position.

There’s a soft reassurance in his thoughts. _ You can do this, Peter. _

He takes a deep breath in before rushing to stand beside Nebula. She screams an echoing battle cry as she stabs at the supporters around them. Peter swings Godslayer around his body, taking off the head of a man as the blade swings back towards him.

He lifts one leg and activates one of his rocket boots, sending an intense flame towards two supporters that are unfortunate enough to stand next to it. They go crashing to the floor with a muffled, scorched scream.

Nebula sends an electric shock to a particularly violent man. “Keep doing that, Quill!” 

He nods frantically in response, though she’s occupied in immobilizing another supporter. He prepares to launch his rocket boots again, before stupidly realizing his lack of insight. _ Duh, _how could he be so stupid?

He slices another supporter before appearing at Nebula’s side. They’re half-outside, gathering in the middle of a large crowd surrounding them. The sky above them is clear, and open, and he has two functioning rocket boots.

He’s about to grab onto Nebula when they’re grabbed by two different supporters. He watches as the woman who’s restraining Nebula jams a thick needle into the fleshy part of her neck. Peter feels it as a similar needle enters his, burning as the supporter injects it into his jugular.

He’s barely able to shake himself from the man’s grip before Nebula escapes from hers, stabbing the woman and moving to attack Peter’s assailant. Peter acts quicker, watching Godslayer disappear into the man’s abdomen before pulling it back out.

“Hold on!” he yells before he’s finally able to wrap an arm around the middle of Nebula’s back. They lift off suddenly, clumsily, crashing down onto the gravel only several yards away.

“Get back!” Nebula yells, orientating herself into a sitting position, clutching onto her detonator with wide eyes. Peter scoots back as much as possible in that second. Their window of opportunity is closing, the supporters realizing what has happened and beginning to advance.

His vision fades back to orange when she presses the button.

* * *

Ash and remnants of burned paper fly above his head, filling the air above him with particulate matter large enough to suffocate him.

Nebula lies somewhere off to his left, as still as him. His neck stings even more than his stab wound, burning all the way up to the base of his skull. He notes with barely suppressed fear that he can’t move at all, confined to lie with his back pressed into the rough gravel, sharp rocks digging into his back.

His vision is hazy and dark. The sky morphs into pictures that he can’t seem to make out. His own body feels as if it is not his, like maybe it never has been.

His body jolts once, twice, and finally he stills, eyes shutting without his permission. Pictures run into his eyeline, thoughts that aren’t his to begin with.

He’s hanging from something when his eyes reopen. His head is pounding, his entire body feeling as if it’s burning from where he’s been strung up. His eyes are unfocused, though he looks forward and thinks that the disassembled blue pieces in his line of sight are pieces of _ him. _

But that’s not right. That’s not-- _ Where is he? _

Gamora’s by his side in an instant, whispering a pained _ ‘Nebula’ _ as she steps up to place a hand against his shoulder, _ Nebula’s shoulder. _He bites back a cry of relief at seeing her face.

“Don’t do this,” Gamora says simply, still facing him but addressing the man behind her. She’s worried. She looks more afraid than Peter has ever seen her before.

“Some time ago,” Thanos begins, “your sister snuck aboard this ship to kill me.”

“Please don’t do this.” She sounds desperate, the kind of desperation that only results in death and demise. He wishes he could reach out for her, but his entire being feels like it’s being weighed down by lead.

The Titan continues as if Gamora hadn’t spoken at all. “And very nearly succeeded. So I brought her here,” he explains. “To talk.”

Thanos suddenly lifts his gauntlet, sending the Power Stone coursing through his veins once more. Peter emits a scream that is undoubtedly Nebula’s, feeling the pain blind every single piece of him. It’s mind numbing, an all-consuming inferno of white hot agony. Something tells him it doesn’t come close to the amount of suffering this form has endured, but it sure as hell comes close for Peter.

“Stop. Stop it,” Gamora begs. She approaches the Mad Titan’s side and pleadingly grabs onto the gauntlet. She looks up at him in earnest before bowing her head in a show of desperation. “I swear to you on my life,” she says, ignoring the fact that not long ago she tried to end it right in front of him. In front of both of them. “I never found the Soul Stone.”

Thanos yanks the gauntlet away and looks over towards Peter. Nebula’s voice rings in his ears suddenly, _ Accessing memory files. _

A memory of Nebula and Gamora’s conversation sparks to life, and Peter hears of Gamora’s confession for the first time ever. This is what she had been hiding. She kept this to herself all along.

“You’re strong. Me.” Peter bites back a low growl, fighting at the restraints in vain. “You’re generous. Me.” He wants to scream and shout, say that Thanos taught her none of those things, that she knew them all along. They were taught to her by her parents, _ her real parents_. Many of those lessons were even self-taught as she navigated through the shitty hand that life had dealt her.

“But I never taught you to lie. That’s why you’re so bad at it.”

Gamora looks up, accepting her fate. Peter tries to scream. His throat constricts.

“Where is the Soul Stone?”

Peter feels his head shake in refusal, _ no, _ he thinks, _ Nebula thinks. _She can’t.

And then Thanos closes his fist, and the power of the Infinity Stones threatens to break him open and spill out his entire life force.

It’s the most painful thing he’s ever felt.

Gamora breaks. “Vormir,” she breathes out. Peter gasps as he regains feeling in his body, entirely spent from the extent of the Titan’s torture. Gamora looks over at him, face apologetic even after freeing him from that pain, knowing what she’s sacrificed in turn. _ Does she even know that this will result in her death? _

She walks over to him and places a hand on his metallic cheek. He shuts his eyes. “The stone is on Vormir,” she says.

“Show me,” Thanos demands.

They’re gone when his eyes reopen.

His body, _ Nebula’s body, _still burns as he fights against the bonds. He shakes off the sudden arms attempting to restrain him even further. A few more flashes of memories flicker before him.

His eye is in the process of being removed in one. He twitches weakly, absorbing the pain and child-like fear that plagues him as his right eye is yanked from his skull. It hurts worse than the Infinity Stones, the betrayal and nausea eating at him along with the fiery pain erupting through each one of his senses. 

He feels more. Brain. Hand. Face.

“Quill!” A voice yells above him. It’s far away, but so close at the same time. He recognizes the voice, realizing those same arms are restraining him now. _ His arms? No, _Nebula’s. But he just felt them being ripped from his body and--

“Quill!” she yells again and he’s snapped out of it, shooting up and removing himself from her grasp almost immediately. He stares at her with wild eyes, feeling too relieved to be free of her touch. He doesn’t think he can ever be okay with anyone laying a finger on him again. _ How does she do it? _

“Fuck,” she whispers. “Fuck, Quill.” She looks shaken too.

He finds his voice after a minute of trying to hold back rising bile and rising screams. His side aches something fierce, having bloodied his shirt even worse than previously. “Wha-- What was that?” Peter says.

“Cheap torture tactic,” she says, voice breaking at the end. “The injection released nanoparticles into our bloodstreams which traveled up to our central nervous systems.” She stops, sucks in a few more deep breaths. “They’re computers, they collected information and communicated. Our memories, _ wirelessly, _to each other.”

Peter nods quick, too quick, and bites his lip. He releases his lip from his teeth immediately, realizing that he’s unable to take any more pain without sending himself spiraling. “I’d ask you ho-- how you know that, but… I- I don’t think I have to… anymore.”

She actually looks worried, _ really _ worried, surprisingly, probably knowing from experience how dark and twisted her memories can be. She’s probably running through all of the possible torture scenarios Peter could’ve experienced, going through so many that she’s starting to lose count, and, _ oh God. He’s gonna throw up. _

“Quill,” she says, snapping him out of it.

He shifts from his backside and moves onto his knees, looking over at the smoldering base. They’ve completed their mission. Peter thinks distantly that maybe he should feel accomplished, but he feels more sick to his stomach than anything. “What did you see?” he finds himself saying, voice choked and small.

Peter realizes that she’s looking at him the same way that he’s looking at her. It takes him a second to recognize that they’re looking at each other with genuine _ pity. _

She looks as if she doesn’t want to say, or maybe doesn’t want to crumble what little grasp of reality he’s regained in the past couple of seconds. “Knowhere,” Nebula speaks anyway. “The last time you…”

Peter nods and looks down, his stomach curls in on itself. He doesn’t need her to continue that any further.

“And your… last day on Terra,” she pauses. “Some of Ego, too… the light...”

Peter almost laughs. “My highlight reel,” he says bitterly.

She looks him up and down, assessing. “What did you see?”

He doesn’t blame her for not wanting to say. 

“Same. The last time yo-- you saw her,” he croaks.

Nebula grimaces, remembering the torture that she’s buried beneath memories of everything else that happened afterwards. It’s clear that she knows he’s hiding something else. “And?”

His eyes flicker to a few of her modifications, then back up to her eyes. He winces, unintentionally.

He’s revealed more than he’s intended, because that’s all that she needs apparently. A look crosses her face that reveals how exposed she must feel at that loss of privacy, but it morphs back into pity again. It’s a pain that he would not wish on anyone, especially not Nebula. The look on her face tells him that she must agree.

“She knew,” he says, trying to wash the pain from his thoughts and see the memory a little clearer. “She knew-- about the Soul Stone? How long? How long did she know?” Peter says, pushing himself onto his feet. He wavers a bit, _ a lot, _but manages to steady himself.

“Quill. Don’t—”

“How long?” he asks again.

Nebula glances up at him before getting back onto her feet. She hesitates. “Before you met. Before Ronan.” She looks conflicted too.

“She never told me,” Peter whispers.

“She told _ me _and look where that got us. Telling you, telling any of your team; it would have been a mistake.”

Peter shakes his head. _ No, _she didn’t trust him. Why would she? Why would any of them ever trust him?

He was sitting on Knowhere for five hours while Nebula was tortured and Gamora was forced to watch. He was sitting on Knowhere after, while Nebula escaped confinement only to try to reach him for who knows how long. Only he didn’t answer, because he’s incompetent. Because he can’t be trusted.

_ He was still on Knowhere when Gamora was forcibly thrown over the side of a cliff. _

Peter places his hand over the apparently non-lethal stab wound and begins to head in the direction of the Milano. His hand instantly wells with blood, the pressure preventing him from bleeding out.

“Where are you going, Quill?” Nebula asks, still standing in the same spot.

He keeps moving. “I can’t stay here.”

She remains silent for a moment as she begins to follow him, a good twenty feet behind him now. 

“Quill!” she yells, breaking that silence.

He keeps moving, walking faster than he would’ve expected a shell-shocked stab wound victim to walk. Nebula keeps her distance, still following behind.

Peter could collapse with joy when the Milano finally comes into sight. His breath hitches slightly as they move towards it.

“Quill. Would you stop for a second?” she bites, her frustration not entirely aimed at him this time. He turns around to face her, trying to gauge her reaction from a distance.

Peter laughs, hysterical and frightening to his own ears. “That wasn’t supposed to be how it went, Nebula. That wasn’t supposed to be the last time we saw her.”

Her expression goes blank. What’s left to say?

She doesn’t deserve this. None of them deserved this.

“You think it was your fault but it _ wasn’t,” _Peter says. “That wasn’t you. It was me.”

His breath falters. Reality comes quick, crashing into him and granting him clarity that he has lacked until now. “I did that to you. I did that to _ Gamora.” _

Nebula shakes her head. She doesn’t get it. “What? Do not be a fool and--”

Peter lifts his comm and clicks it on. “Rocket?” he finds himself saying.

Nebula tilts her head in confusion and looks at the communication device in his shaking palm. “What are you---”

A moment and then, _ “Quill? Wha’s the matter?” _ the raccoon asks_. _Peter sucks in a breath at the sound. None of them deserve this.

Peter looks Nebula in the eyes as he begins to back away. She steps forward, preparing herself for something that she does not look prepared for. “I’m dropping you our coordinates,” Peter responds. “You should be a few clicks away. Come pick us up,” he says.

It sinks in too late for her by the time Nebula comes rushing forward. Peter tosses his comm in her direction, boarding the Milano swiftly and locking the entrances.

He hears his comm boom to life in Nebula’s hands from outside. _ “What’s going on? Quill?” _He looks at Nebula from beyond the viewport.

“Quill! Don’t be a fool!” she yells. She looks frightened. Strangely, it doesn’t seem to be for herself.

Peter finds that it’s easier to take off if he turns away from her gaze.

* * *

His hands tremble as he weaves the surgical thread into his wound. The needle enters and exits as it should and, in no more than thirty minutes, his wound is thankfully closed shut.

He pours what’s left of the antiseptic over his inflamed, reddened skin. Peter hisses through clenched teeth and leans his head back against one of the Milano’s cool metal walls.

Peter stumbles upward and onto his feet. He looks out the viewport and surveys the galaxy surrounding him. The cosmos feel suffocatingly empty tonight, and Peter doesn’t think he’s felt this lonely since he first left the Ravagers and boarded the Milano.

He almost trips over his feet as he makes his way over to his bunk. He’s made sure that the Milano’s tracking systems are down. No one is coming for him tonight.

Peter sort of does end up tripping, landing face down into one of his pillows. His head and entire body roar in protest at the sudden movement.

_ They were doomed from the start. _

Falling asleep sucks. The nightmares, the crippling thoughts of loneliness as he tries and fails to fall asleep on most nights.

He finds that it’s much easier tonight.

The pain fades away as he drifts off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, haha, uh. Don't kill me.
> 
> As always, please leave kudos, reviews, or drop in your favorite quotes! Or scream at me or something, I wouldn't blame you.


	8. The Sound of Freakin' Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I hope my updates will become less sporadic from this point on,” I said (circa 2 months ago).
> 
> in all seriousness, i am super sorry for the wait. i wish i have more of an excuse, but in all honesty these past two months have felt like upwards of three weeks, tops. so, losing track of time, a little bit of writers block, and also the fact that i may have rewatched the entirety of the mcu two times over are the main reasons why this chapter is coming to you so late.
> 
> not to worry though! i will hold true to my word this time. i have an entire outline for the rest of this fic and a bunch of coffee to help get the words out. i hope y’all still care about this fic and want more!! there are still a few more chapters until the end!
> 
> that being said, here’s the chapter :)

_ 37 outgoing calls. _

“He is not picking up.” Mantis frowns down at the holo in her hands. It isn’t like Peter to not answer their calls, namely hers, especially considering how many they’ve sent out. Anything more than two calls signifies an emergency. Peter has said so himself.

It seems that even 37 is not enough to reach him now.

“Try ‘im again,” Rocket mutters as his hands zoom across the holographic keyboard, punching in coordinates as he turns back over to the Milano’s last available data log. It has gone offline since then, much to their collective dismay. There’s a slight frown peppering Rocket’s face, radiating off him in waves of anger and worry—maybe even a little guilt. Mantis looks away and glances back down at their holo.

She presses call again.

The holo emits a faint hum as it calls, though she knows deep down that a 38th call won’t make any difference.

Drax sits on her left, twisting a lone dagger as he looks upon it. His expression is strangely solemn, appearing to be entirely lost in thought. That part isn’t so strange. It’s not unlike Drax to stray from the present.

The strongest emotion she’s able to sense from him is grief. Except, Mantis has come to learn, grief is not so much a feeling as it is a group of emotions all blended together.

Grief is sadness, depression, anger, fear. Grief is loss, misdirection, loneliness. It’s the feeling of a wound closing, reopening, closing, reopening—a constant cycle of healing and breaking that never seems to end. It’s late night screams in the silence of your own quarters and a punch to the gut that catches you unaware. 

And with grief, it's antonym is just as apparent. 

Love. 

It soothes and hurts the heart. And so the Guardians have always harbored a hurt that exists within the very love that they share. Love, the finest of all things, even considering its propensity to carry such destruction along with it.

Grief is the way that Nebula is so competitive, insisting that everything is a game that one must either win or lose.

Grief is the way that Rocket is hesitant to all touch, flinching slightly at every approaching hand.

Grief is the way that Drax silences when daughters and wives are mentioned, choking up and bearing his emotions stoically.

Grief is the way that Groot hugs them all just a little bit tighter, afraid that he’ll drift off again into a cloud of nothingness.

For herself, she’s not so sure. All these years reading other people and she’s still not one-hundred percent sure of what  _ she _ is feeling sometimes. Her grief may be similar. It strikes her as the way that she looks at all of them as if they are rarities, the finest jewels in the galaxy. Her grief exists within the crippling fear that they too will be lost, that she will find herself alone again, spending the rest of her life knee-deep in pure loneliness.

_ Peter. _

Peter bore more grief while he was here than she’s ever sensed from him before. Their collective grief for Gamora is vast, near-blinding at times, but his appears to be of a different magnitude entirely.

Peter’s grief is buried deep within himself, embedded within every fiber and every essence of his being. Mantis watched as his grief became his identity, existing in everything he did, every move he made. Grief consumed him, became him, tore him apart.

And she did nothing.

She tried to ease him into contentment, numerous times, but his grief was persistent. Anything she did was temporary. Mantis could not do anything but watch as her brother slipped away from her grasp.

They never should have let him go.

Nebula looms over Rocket’s shoulder, watching every move he makes with unwavering attention. She’s rigid in stance, holding herself as if any trace of informality will betray the confidence she’s trying to convey. “Do you insist on typing that slow to annoy me?” she finally snaps, glaring at Rocket’s idling hands.

Rocket scowls. “Yeah, Nebs. I’m jeopardizing Quill’s life in order to piss you off,” he deadpans.  _ Sarcasm, _ Mantis recognizes. Rocket’s typical defense mechanism. “What kinda person do you think I am?”

Nebula barely suppresses a scoff. “I  _ think _ that you type slow,” she says through clenched teeth.

Rocket’s fingers twitch and tighten into fists before reopening. If anger was visible she’s sure it would be blasting off of him in furious red waves.

“Do you see this?” he asks, pointing at a screen lined with data from when the Milano was last online. “Do you see that the Milano’s tracker is off? Is it just me?  _ Drax. _ Hey, Drax. What do you see?” 

Drax humors him and looks up. “It is off.”

Rocket pretends to look surprised, widening his eyes in faux realization. “Oh, really? I had no idea! I was too busy trying to piss off Nebul—”

“Enough!” Nebula yells, emotions stretched thin as thread. “Can you find the moron or not?”

Rocket takes in a deep breath, steadying himself. His fingers go idle once more. “I’m trying to bypass the Milano’s offline setting.” He sighs. “Problem is, right after Ronan I basically made sure no one would be able to do just that. Didn’t want the d’ast Nova Corps, or worse, the Kree, tracking our asses.”

“So you cannot do it?” Mantis says, watching as yet another call goes unanswered. Her fingers unwittingly hover over the screen displaying Peter’s caller I.D. She looks down at the photo he chose for himself, seeing a version of Peter that’s miles happier than any recent memory.

In the image he’s perched on Gamora’s back, smiling widely at the camera. Gamora stands below him, laughing up at the man as her arms wrap around from the backside of his legs. Peter had said it was something Terrans referred to as a “piggyback ride”. The nonsensical term was ridiculed by the rest of the team, but Mantis remembers the way that Peter and Gamora looked at each other that day. There was always a sacred bond between the two that blossomed with every story regarding their respective homeworlds. Mantis can still feel the presence of their love and mutual respect as if the emotions themselves spark at the tips of her fingers.

Rocket speaks up over her wandering train of thought. “I’m sayin’ that I made the d’ast tracking system flarkin’ foolproof. It’s meant to keep out even the most skilled programmers,” he pauses. “Yeah,  _ uh… _ even me.”

Nebula paces several feet to her left before visibly restraining from the act of ramming her mechanical hand into the side of the ship. She turns towards Rocket, nothing but spite perforating her features. Her mouth is wound into a line so tight that it’s bound to snap at a moment’s notice. “You are telling me,” she hisses, “that you made a tracking system for your ship that you are  _ unable  _ to track?”

“The offline system was  _ made _ so that we weren’t followed and murdered in our d’ast sleep! Or blown up, or captured, or sent into a flarkin’ space battle we weren’t ready for!” Rocket says with undeniable certainty lacing his words, throwing his arms up for emphasis. “Came in handy a couple’a times, too. Dunno if I would’ve been around to  _ annoy you _ without it!”

The Luphomoid rolls her eyes. “Oh, will you let that go already?” she says. “What if someone stole your ship?”

“They wouldn’t be able to turn it  _ off _ without the d’ast code! Only we have it. Sorry that I didn’t account for one of our own morons stealing the thing and turning off our tracker!”

When Thor speaks up from behind her, Mantis nearly jumps out of her skin. She throws her head over her shoulder, antenna shot ramrod straight as she watches the man with wide eyes. “Quill’s gone offline?” he asks. The question lacks any real inquiry, more of a statement of disbelief than a means to confirm information.

The Asgardian stands idly by one of the Benatar’s many seats, his beefy yet still intimidatingly muscular arm perched across the top of it. 

_ “Jee-zus _ , little warnin’ next time would be nice,” Rocket mumbles, having jolted out of his seat at Thor’s undetected arrival himself. His nerves are nearly as frayed as the wires Peter constantly tells him to stop leaving around the ship.

“A similar predicament befell my team once before, rabbit. Maybe I can be of assistance,” Thor says. “Remember Banner?”

“Yep. Big, green, nerdy lookin’ guy? Ringin’ a couple’a bells.”

The Asgardian shrugs in what strikes Mantis as agreement. “Stark installed stealth tech for the Quinjet, not unlike the…  _ offline _ thingy you have on the Milano.” He releases a pained sigh. “Banner took the Quinjet and went offline for quite some time.”

Silence consumes the flight deck as they await some further explanation that Thor does not seem to offer. When no one speaks, Mantis does. “And how did you find him?” she asks.

Thor processes her question for a moment before he stills, looking up at the ceiling with a slight crease of his brow. “Well… I didn’t  _ find _ him, exactly. It was more an unfortunate series of events that led me to crash down on Sakaar…”

Rocket’s face falls. “Sakaar? The warrior,  _ slave _ planet, Sakaar? You never mentioned that before!”

“Oh. Didn’t I?” Thor cocks his head, questioning. “Well never mind that, yes, I was there. I was sent into the arena to fight the Grandmaster’s ‘champion’. Banner, if you can believe it.”

When Mantis lets out a soft gasp Thor catches her gaze and smiles. “I won by the way. Don’t let him tell you any different,” the man adds for good measure.

Nebula’s face twists in annoyance. Her hands curl into fists, pulsing almost imperceptibly as she attempts to squeeze them even tighter. “And how long did it take for you to  _ ‘find’ _ him?” she asks, her voice dripping with venom and mockery at Thor’s verbiage.

“Oh, um, two years… give or take.”

Rocket palms his face before fixing a murderous gaze on his friend. “And how’s that supposed to help us find Quill? Sounds like a huge freakin’ coincidence that you found Big Green to begin with.”

“Pathetic,” Nebula mutters.

Drax looks away from his blade to stare up at Nebula from where she stands. “Were you not the one who lost Quill?”

Nebula nearly reels back at the accusation before steadying herself. “Lost him?  _ Lost him,” _ she repeats, rolling the words across her tongue, testingly, as if they’re indistinct syllables that her translator refuses to translate. “Quill is an adult, I did not _ lose _ him. His actions are not mine.”

“Care to tell us what the  _ flark _ even happened back there? Ya can't just leave us with ‘he flew off with the Milano and a gaping hole in his side,’ now can you?” Rocket says.

“He cannot handle it!” Nebula shouts in frustration. “He’s got himself convinced this is all his fault now.  _ He’s too far gone, _ Rocket.”

“Yer tellin’ me we should just give up on ‘im then? That what you want?” Mantis watches as Rocket visibly suppresses a sharper, more lethal blow. She doesn't know what he planned to say next, but she can't imagine it was anything good. His tone softens suddenly, if only a little. “What the hell happened back there?” he asks again.

Something in Nebula softens also. It strikes Mantis as an admittance of defeat, though Nebula has never struck her as the type of person who would submit to any form of it.

“I’m not suggesting that we give up, only that Quill is worse off than we once thought. The way that he acted back there…” She pauses, suddenly acting as if she is in deep thought. Mantis can almost visualize Nebula's internal thought process, the words she wants said fizzling out before they’re able to be articulated. “He has changed,” she finally settles on, ignoring Rocket’s question.

“He hasn’t  _ changed,” _ Mantis counters. “He is hurting.”

Rocket sighs and turns towards Nebula. “What we  _ thought _ was that this would be good for ‘im. Apparently we’re not only a-holes but flarkin’ idiots, too. I knew this was a bad idea! I called it! The last thing Quill needs is to be handed a d’ast sword and told to stab his problems!” Rocket takes in a deep breath, his ears drooping slightly. “Have you met the dude? He’s sentimental. He listens to that flarkin’ Zune when he’s dealing with shit and I don’t know if any of you morons noticed but the Benatar hasn’t exactly been alive with the sound of  _ freakin’ _ music!”

Mantis wrings her hands and takes a half-step back from the cockpit. She has heard similar words escape Rocket’s mouth before. Words such as  _ sentimental _ were once used as barbs in heated arguments between Rocket and their captain, words that she’s certain are intended to achieve the exact opposite purpose now.

“I don’t speak Terran,” Nebula says. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that we’re in over our fucking heads. A Quill that doesn't listen to music is a Quill that’s fucked up in the head. We have no idea how to deal with any of this. The only person who would know what to do in this situation is Gammie, and obviously she’s not here!”

It goes painfully silent after that. Rocket gulps once, and then looks down at the floor. If his voice cracked at the mention of her name, nobody mentions.

“What if we try to think  _ like _ Gamora?” Mantis speaks up, ignoring the way the atmosphere in the cockpit feels as if it is crushing her. She’s not used to the prolonged sense of despair that’s overtaken their ship for the past several weeks. It is eerily similar to the emotions she felt from Ego’s progeny, the ones she befriended before they were deemed unfit for his purpose. She gulps. “What would she do if she was here?”

“This would not have happened if Gamora were here,” Drax says. “Her absence is the reason why Quill--”

Nebula quickly interrupts. It is clear that she is not in the mood to explain the error in Drax’s understanding. Mantis makes a note to herself to explain it to him later if he still doesn't understand. “My sister would stop at nothing to find him.”

“So…  _ find him. _ Great, we’re back to square one,” Rocket says.

“Do you have a better plan?” Nebula snarls.

“Do you even know if he’s still alive?” Rocket asks suddenly, as if the question had been coiled at the tip of his tongue and only now has he gained the confidence to ask it. “He flew off with a stab wound and we haven’t heard from him in a whole day cycle--”

“I am Groot!”

“Do not say things like that!” Mantis yells, not wanting to entertain the horrid thought for any longer.

“I wouldn’t—” Thor begins.

“You are an imbecile,” Nebula deadpans, her voice suspiciously devoid of emotion.  _ Restraint, _ Nebula’s defense mechanism.

“All of this yelling is not aiding us in our search for--”

Drax is cut off yet again, this time by a shrill ding that reverberates throughout the Benatar’s cockpit. The sound brings nothing but bliss into her chest, the echoing ring weaving through the inner canals of her ears as she fumbles to turn on the holo in her hands.

The other Guardians and Thor all scramble up from their respective positions in the cockpit and instinctively crowd around her as she pulls up the message. There’s an obvious hitch in their breathing, unsure of what to expect.

Deep anticipation pools in her stomach, the kind that demands to be satiated while also beckoning a profound sense of terror.

There’s no denying now that it’s from Peter, the notification clearly stating his contact information as she pulls up the log once more. Her hands shake as she brings herself to click the message. 

**Alive.**

It’s silent for a few painful moments. There’s a sense of relief that’s quickly overcome by something much darker. Mantis never would have thought that a word that promises so much life could be filled with so much death at the same time.

“Can you track that?” Nebula asks, her eyes still trained on the message, the holo’s bright light shining off the hollow black of her sclera.

“Maybe.”

* * *

He’s not sure if he should be surprised or infuriatingly indifferent when he awakes back in the midst of ankle deep water and orange skies.

He’s certainly not surprised when his prepubescent voice speaks up without any conscious thought on his part. “I can’t fucking do this anymore,” he finds himself saying to no one in particular, his voice two decibels away from being rightfully classified as a shriek.

Peter squeezes his fists shut and glares down at them. The water below is reflective enough to see his face staring back at him. Sure enough, he spots a familiar black and blue bruise circling his eye.

“I’m losing it,” he mutters, running his miniature hands down his face and resisting the urge to slap some sense back into himself. “I’ve lost it. ‘ve lost it.” The sheer amount of repetition he’s engaging in definitely isn’t helping convince his brain that he hasn’t gone batshit crazy, but it’s not like there are many other explanations available.

He’s got an infection, maybe, is the best possible scenario. Not the best _ physically, _ considering his actual adult body is lying alone on his bunk in the Milano with a shakily stitched hole in its side. An infection wouldn’t mean the best for him physically,  _ sure, _ but it’s better to consider than the alternative.

The alternative being that he’s finally freakin’ snapped.

Because he’s pretty fucking certain that he’s not dreaming at this point. It’s the same setting he woke from before, but this time it’s even clearer. There’s less fuzz around the corners of his vision. The water ripples in tune with the slight shaking of his right foot. He can even feel the chill of the atmosphere as it grips his goosebump riddled skin.

No, he’s not dreaming. These have to be some realistic ass hallucinations.

He decides it doesn’t matter whether they’re a result of infection or psychosis. All that matters is that he snaps the fuck out of it.

He stumbles forward on his feet, taking up drops of water as the liquid sloshes with his movement. The pillared structure remains upright in front of him, the only constant that he can focus on.

“Peter?” A voice says, and he stills.

A small form peeks out from behind one of the lean pillars. She’s lean herself, her hair pulled up in twin braids, as pink as ever. Memories of dye stained fingers resurface from the parts of his brain that haven’t been overtaken by thoughts of death and destruction.

He doesn’t trust his voice, or really any part of him, to be steady. All he can trust himself to do is stand there and stare at her dumbfounded, his lips parted slightly, his fists clenching and unclenching to the beat of his jackrabbit heart.

“Peter,” she says again, more sternly than he’d expect a child to be able to sound. “We don’t have much time. We need to hurry.”

Hallucination or not, he knows exactly how he’ll feel if he wakes up only to realize he left any Gamora unanswered. His lip trembles for a moment, his tongue feeling as if a weight has been strapped to the underside of it.

“For what?” Tears instantly come to cloud his vision. He wipes an arm across his eyes angrily, annoyed that any part of him would try to obstruct his view of her. “Hurry and do what?”

It takes no more than two seconds for her to stride over to him. She picks up his hands in hers, much smaller than his, though his still appear to be impossibly small. There’s love in her gaze—a deep, romantic love that’s unusual to see on the face of a child. “Hope is not lost,” she says with such vehemence that it sends jolts down his spine. 

Peter shakes his head. He’s unable to stop the tears from sliding down his heat flushed cheeks.

“Isn’t it though? That’s what they all say,” Peter chokes out. He shakes his head again, this time realizing the absurdity of everything that’s happening here. It doesn’t make it hurt any less. “This isn’t even real.”

“I am right here,” she says kindly, adopting a tone that leaves no room for argument. She places the pad of her thumb at the direct center of his forehead, giving a gentle swipe down the bridge of his nose before moving her palm to cradle the back of his head. Her touch doesn’t stray, placing enough pressure that it’s almost impossible to deny her presence. “Ask for me.”

“Gamor--”

He jolts awake.

“Fuck!” he screams, pushing himself up all too soon. His side protests, but the pain only drives him as he throws his momentum upwards and off of the bunk.

He sways dangerously before he’s able to stand completely parallel to the wall that he drives his fist into, the metal refusing to warp and resulting in a sickening pop on his end.

Peter hisses and grabs his fist, hissing even more when his fingers meet the split knuckles he’s just given himself.

“Fuck! Damn it!” he yells again, fresh tears spilling down his face. His uninjured hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose, becoming salty with tears as his palm rests against his cheek.

It’s too much.

He’s unable to do anything but crumble to the floor. 

He can take the sadness, the fear, the anger. But this? Whatever  _ this _ is? This sick, twisted game he’s been forced to play?

It’s breaking him.

The contents of his bag have fallen to the floor beside him, a mess of shirts and pants that barely conceal the presence of his Zune. It’s idle, unmoving and innocent and yet it mocks him and all that he’s worth.

He grabs it with his uninjured hand, twisting his fingers around its casing with just enough restraint that it doesn’t shatter in his grasp. He considers throwing it for a moment, a brief and thoughtless moment; he imagines it lying in the space where wall and floor meet, broken and lost forever.

A strangled sob escapes him as he relinquishes his iron grip and allows the Zune to plop back down onto one of his crumpled shirts. His tears come unbidden as he curls into himself, wrapping his arms around his shins and resting his back against the edge of his bunk.

The view of the ground from where his head hangs listlessly between his knees is perhaps the most calming thing he’s seen in the past week. His heart rate gradually begins to slow with the familiarity of this routine. He forces a few deep breaths into his lungs, the inhales stuttering the first few times, only evening out the more he tries.

Peter doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there when the sound of a distinct ringing meets his ears. He picks his head up, black dots swirling in front of him. He allows his eyes to shut while he adjusts to being vertical again, relying on his trembling arms to push himself into a seated position at the edge of his bunk.

He opens his eyes and blinks twice, noticing how much brighter the Milano’s artificial lighting appears to be since the last time he was conscious. It has to be somewhere near the beginning to middle of the day cycle, though it feels as if he’s been asleep a while.

The ringing continues, almost too annoying to be ignored. 

Peter peers down at his shirtless torso, allowing his left hand to slide down his chest. It finally skitters to a stop once his fingertips make contact with the area surrounding the mess of thread perforating his side. The wound is red and angry, though he has no other symptoms, no fever that could explain his lucid-like dreams. It’s probably irritated at being treated like a pin cushion and slept on without protection. He reaches over and rummages through the jumbled mess of a medkit that sits beside him; he pours a few more drops of a newly opened antiseptic and has the sense to slap a medium sized bandage over it.

He’d like to consider his dream just that, a  _ dream, _ a figment of his fucked up imagination.

He’s not so sure he can.

His legs are heavy when he places himself back onto his feet. He sees no reason to, but he steps forward anyway, following in the direction of the ringing.

_ Follow it, _ his mind clearly states. Peter straightens up and pauses in his tracks, questioning the clarity of the word that has just rung in his mind with the same amplitude as the ring he’s been instructed to follow.

“What the fuc--” he starts with heavy breath. The curse dies on his tongue, muffled by the deep exhale that shakes out of him; his chest stutters in movement,  _ up down up down up. _

He crashes back down onto his knees once he reaches the cockpit. It’s exactly where he left it, face down on the console, lying over its wireless charging station. He wraps his fingers around the device, lifting it close to his chest as he shifts his legs out in front of him, sitting back onto the floor rather than in the pilot’s seat only two feet away.

When he pulls it back down in his line of sight, his breath all but escapes him. There are so many missed calls that his tired brain protests the mere idea of counting them all.

Any sane person would take the sheer amount of missed calls as a sign that he should reach out to his family. Especially given the fact that they seem to have been sent out over a 24-hour period in which he’s somehow remained in a dream world designed to cripple whatever sanity he has left.

His hands shake as he scrolls over to the message bar, fingers straying over the holographic keyboard before his mind truly has the opportunity to gather its thoughts. 

Alive, is all he’s able to get out. That’s all he is anyway. That is all that he can ever be without Gamora, and even that is too much at times.

Peter throws his holo down and runs his uninjured palm down his face, wound tight in fine lines showcasing the depth behind this particular fatigue. He stretches out his sore right hand and feels as the joints beneath his skin protest, almost as if they’re begging to be free of the pain that their host insists on inflicting upon them. Years of hitting, slamming, kleptomania, weapon handling, and rough surfaces have left his hands calloused and scarred beyond repair—something that he once looked upon with pride that has morphed into something of intense repulsion.

_ Ask for me, _ he thinks, remembers,  _ hears…  _ His fingers curl back into a fist, an action that has become an awful habit as of late. The sting that he finds there only sends him careening forward. “Stop,” he begs, reaching upwards to tug at the hair atop his head. He pulls his head down into his palms, squeezing his eyes shut with the hope that they’ll reopen and he’ll see the world just a little clearer.

_ Peter, _ he hears instead, as loud as the voice in his dream, as real as the water rippling at his feet.

As  _ Gamora _ as every other time she’s said his name in the past.

He gasps for air. “Stop. I can’t--”

Peter jumps onto his feet, fingers threaded into the curly mess of hair atop his head. His lips still move with half spoken mumbles.  _ Breathe, _ he thinks. He’s not going crazy. There’s a perfectly normal psychological explanation for all of this. Stress, anger, guilt, sadness. It’s just getting to him. Just some bad habits sneaking up on him. Too many sleepless nights, too many shots of Contraxian whiskey.

He’s fine. Completely and utterly--

_ “Fine,” she says with disbelief. “That’s what you’re going with?” _

_ Peter shakes his head. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he whispers against her collarbone, his face pressed against her chest and his arms wrapped around her midsection. Her hands stray across his lower back, rubbing lightly and teasing one of the loose threads hanging from his shirt. _

_ He can’t see it, but he knows that she’s cocking one silver etched brow at that. He’s sure that if he were to look up he’d see traces of despair there as well, evident in the tightness of her perfectly curved jaw. So, he doesn’t, knowing the vulnerability that will pour out of him if he fails to keep his doors locked shut. _

_ “Well, considering what I’ve just asked of you… What we’re about to head into…” _

_ Peter presses his face deeper against her skin, his face flushed and hot. He breathes in the smell of her and hopes that it won’t be for the last time. “Can we-- I— That’s not something I want to think about, Mora.”  _

_ I’m not going to let it come to that, he wants to say. _

_ Except, even after everything she’s told him about the Mad Titan, he’s still in over his head. He wants to promise her protection. He wants to promise her that he won’t have to lay a finger on her, because Thanos will never get close enough to her for that to be necessary. He wants to promise her a life without Thanos. He wants to promise her anything except what he’s just promised only minutes ago. _

_ “You’re right, I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Don’t think about that just yet.” She tangles a hand in his hair and slowly strokes his scalp. “You’re fine. We’ll all be--” _

\--fine. He’s  _ fine. _

* * *

It’s risky for him to be planetside, he knows that.

The Milano’s bright orange and blue detailing is practically a beacon for his family to follow. Not to mention the fact that he’ll be unable to run away if any one of them shows face in the darkly lit, hole-in-the-wall Contraxian bar he’s wound up on. 

But it’s not like he gives two shits what happens to him anymore anyway.

There’s a high-pitched, warbled melody playing from somewhere he can’t locate, partly due to the amount of alcohol currently in his bloodstream. The grating tune harmonizes with the clinking and clanking of glass against mud colored wood, the stripped varnish leaving the table far too sticky for his liking. To his right an orange skinned woman leans across the length of the table, whispering into the ear of a questionably groomed Xandarian man. His bushy brows shoot up in surprise before he reflexively knocks over the glass of liquor in front of him. He pays the mess no mind, slapping down a handful of units before running off with the woman in tow.

Peter tosses back the glass of clear liquid in his grasp. His eyes unfocus, forming a hazy film that morphs the wooden table into nothing more than a brown blob. He catches a whiff of his drink’s strong odor and finds mercy in the way that it overpowers the bar’s naturally musty scent. He slams the glass face down and waves the bartender over, nodding in recognition when the man drops two more shots in front of him.

“One of those days, huh?”

Peter’s gaze darts to his right as soon as he processes not only the words spoken, but the identity of the voice speaking to him. “Krag?” he says in disbelief, studying the man as he adjusts his position on what was a vacant barstool mere moments ago.

Kraglin tilts his head over towards Peter’s bruised fist. His swollen fingers remain clenched around his full shot glass, as if its existence is imperative to his survival. Peter can’t keep the shake out of his hand as he brings the glass to his lips. “Oh, so’s it’s one’a  _ those _ days,” Kraglin amends, still eyeing the mess of black and blue across his knuckles.

“One of those lifetimes,” Peter says, lacking the mirth that sort of joke usually requires. “S’good to see you, Krag.”

Kraglin’s lips twist into a slight smile. “It’s been’a while, hasn’t it?”

Peter doesn’t acknowledge the slight crack in his voice. He also doesn’t acknowledge the thin sliver of liquid forming just above his bottom eyelid. Ignoring the vulnerability of fellow Ravagers is practically an unwritten rule. 

Kraglin’s never been the most emotional guy to begin with, so it’s probably best to ignore that kind of thing anyway. Uncharted territory and all.

“Sure has,” Peter agrees, throwing back his remaining shot. It’d make an interesting drinking game to take a shot everytime someone mentions anything to do with The Snap. It’s also one that’d leave him with severe alcohol poisoning in roughly 3 hours tops. 

He figures he’ll let it slide with Kraglin just this once. Seeing as he hasn’t seen Peter in five whole years, he kind of has the right to bring it up, no matter how much it makes his skin itch. “Where’ve you been this whole time? You talk to Rocket or Nebs recently?” Peter asks, as kindly as he has the energy for.

_ Did they mention that I’ve more or less gone off the radar, _ Peter wants to know.

“Nah,” Kraglin says, giving Peter a few pats on the back. “Called an’ met ‘em both a couple’ve times ov’a the years, but, y’know the deal with Xandar.” He shrugs. “Sorry I didn’t git in touch when you’s got back. Whassit been? A month and a half?” He pauses, sighing, his face twisted with guilt. “Nova’s got me pretty busy and--”

Peter nods. He gets it. Things are different.

“Anyway, came here to satisfy some nostalgia I got.” He looks around the bar, as if suddenly noticing that Peter is here alone. “Where’s that team of yours? You git sick of ‘em yet?” he jokes.

He shakes his head and tries not to focus on the guilt creeping back up on him. “Just needed to get away for a little.” Peter makes a split second decision and stands up, nudging his stool beneath the countertop as he looks back over towards Kraglin. He winces at the way the sudden movement pulls at his stitches but tries not to make it obvious. “Listen. I’m kinda on the run, y’know?” He puts on his best show, shrugging his shoulders and giving a sly smirk. “Old times kind of thing. Lone rogue. All about nostalgia these days too.”

Kraglin nods, if a bit hesitantly. “Yeah, yeah. I git it.” The Xandarian sobers up a little, coming back to a five-year-old thought. “‘M real sorry ‘bout yer girl, Pete.”

Peter grabs his jacket from the stool. It’s black, not quite the reds that still sit across Kraglin’s shoulders. Lots of things are different.

“Nice seeing you, Krag,” Peter says, letting Kraglin take over his position as troubled man in the bar.

* * *

The thing about Pete is that Kraglin has never been able to understand him.

From the moment Cap’n pulled his scrawny ass onto the Elector, the kid’s been spewing Terran nonsense that wouldn’t make sense even with the finest translator the galaxy has to offer.

For a while Kraglin only saw him as a loud-mouthed, spoiled rotten kid.

Because ain’t no other Ravager could get away with running off with an M-ship and a four billion unit score. Ain’t no other Ravager could bring a mutiny upon Yondu’s head while still maintaining his favoritism.

Any other Ravager and Cap’n would’a kept that spacesuit disk nice and snug against his own chest, Kraglin thought after the funeral, selfishly. Those were the kind of thoughts that kept him up at night, the horrible thoughts that left him terribly guilty for having thought them up in the first place.

Things change though. Scrawny, loud-mouthed kids become teammates and captains and maybe even brothers.

One thing that never changes, throughout it all, is that 99% of the time Quill makes zero goddamn sense.

Kraglin sits perched on the barstool, eyes wandering over the discarded shot glasses that Pete’s left behind. He runs their conversation back a few times, wondering what he’s missing.

“‘On the run’?” Kraglin whispers under his breath, tapping a single finger against the hardwood counter.

If Quill’s loyalty came into question 10 years ago, Kraglin would’ve said that he’s ‘bout as loyal as a lone Orloni. Since then, it’s become undeniable, Quill is fiercely loyal to his team. Fiercely loyal to the end, just not where the Ravager’s were concerned.

So, Kraglin’s not buying this lone rogue act. Not in the slightest.

He pulls his communicator out of his pocket, fishing for a moment before his hand wraps around the familiar device.

Tapping a few buttons, he makes the call to the Benatar’s comm system. He waits a beat and then--

_ “Krag?” _

“Rocket,” he says. “Good to hear from ya.”

There’s the sound of muffled talking in the background, a consistent beeping noise too.  _ “You need something Krag? Kinda got our hands on somethin’ over here,” _ Rocket says. He sounds distracted.

_ “Is that Kraglin?” _ a voice says, close enough to be audible but far enough to sound distorted.  _ “Tell him that his moronic brother snapped and went off the grid.” _

“What?” Kraglin sputters. “What do ya mean? I jus’ saw ‘im a couple’a minutes ago, maybe. He’s here on Contraxia right now. That’s why I’m callin’.”

_ “Oh, flark,”  _ Rocket says, audibly deflating with relief.  _ “He’s not dead.” _

_ “Imbecile,” _ Nebula says, much clearer sounding now that she's presumably moved closer to the transmitter.

“Dead?” Kraglin nearly screeches. “What’s goin’ on? Y’all thought he was  _ dead?” _

_ “Listen, Krag,” _ Rocket says, sounding less relieved and more serious.  _ “There’s no time to explain. I need ya to get Quill and--” _ He pauses.  _ “--you bring the Quadrant?” _

“Yeah. Got it parked outside. Why?”

_ “Quill’s not… Quill’s not okay, alright? That’s all I’ve got time to explain. Get ‘im and the Milano onto the Quadrant. We’ll be there soon to dock the Benatar. You got time for a rescue mission?” _

“Nova Prime can wait,” Kraglin answers honestly. “On it. I’ll keep ‘n touch.”

The call ends almost immediately after that. He decides to waste no time, shoving his comm in his pocket, close by in case he needs to grab it again. He nearly knocks his stool flat on the floor as he stands, shrugging his leathers more snug around his shoulders before making a beeline straight for the bar’s exit.

Contraxia’s frigid gusts of wind and snowfall have been merciless every single time he’s had the pleasure of being on the d’asted ice planet. It’s always been a shithole, but his fondness exists in the memories that Contraxia holds.

Kraglin shoves his hands into the pockets of his reds, feigning a sense of casualness that he does not feel. The wind nips at the exposed skin at his neck, sending chills down his body. There’s an odd feeling existing in the back of his thoughts, a feeling of uncertainty. 

It could be the fact that Pete was presumed dead by his team not minutes ago. It could also be the fact that the snow beneath his feet reminds him of the sheen film of ice that lined the skin of his Cap’n as he was pulled onto the Quadrant, dead and clutched tight by the wobbling hands of Quill. It could be the uncertainty he felt when he saw the two forms floating in the black, sensing only one lifeform and knowing it was a 50/50 chance, neither option sitting very well with him.

It’s a similar feeling now, he thinks, as the ice crunches beneath his boots, not quite knowing what lies in store for Quill. He steps through a large crowd of men, glaring angrily when a particularly sharp elbow jabs him in the side. They laugh with their booze held tight against their stomachs, arms wrapped around the waists of giggly lovebots. The part of him that yearns for the nostalgia of it all is quickly overpowered by the sudden need to get the hell off the d’ast planet.

He almost forgets what he’s doing, wrapped up in the familiarity of the planet’s atmosphere. He’s almost expecting a miniature Quill to run around the corner, tugging on his jacket and askin’ if they can go back on the Elector. A small patch of dark black in the snow is enough to pull him away from that memory. He follows the droplets. The marks in the snow grow in size as he approaches an alley tucked in the corner of two large buildings.

As he rounds the corner, holding tightly onto a breath that he can’t bring himself to release, he spots Peter.

He stands with his back facing Kraglin, fixed in the middle of the narrow alley. His posture is rigid, his legs slightly apart and his head hanging towards the floor. His arms are held downwards in a slight v-formation, his left hand clenched shut. His right hand brandishes a long, sleek sword—dripping with the same thick blackness staining the white powder beneath their feet.

A body sits slack against the alley’s brick walls. The corpse’s head is tipped forward, a thick stream still pouring from its neck. The man is big and threatening, objectively evil lookin’, but Kraglin silently begs the gods to grant Pete mercy if he’s allowed his devastation to kill an innocent man in cold blood.

“Pete?” Kraglin says. The shake in his vocal chords betrays the calmness he’s trying to adopt.

If Kraglin thought his voice was shaky then Pete’s is absolutely trembling. He turns around, dropping his bloodied sword onto the snow and looking up at Kraglin’s shocked face. “He was-- he was one of ‘em,” Pete says, gesturing to the body. “One of the… one of the people who’re planning on tryin’ to resnap everyone.” He gulps. “I recognized… Recognized his mugshot. Would’ve recognized ‘im anywhere.”

Kraglin nods. He thought he would’ve been overcome with relief at that realization. He’s not.

Not because he doesn’t believe Pete, _ he does —  _ Pete’s not the type to get something like that _ wrong. _ But because the Terran’s pale face looks like it could be the face of a man who has just shot his own mother point blank in the chest. 

_ ‘...not okay’, _ well that’s one way to phrase it.

In the past, getting Quill to open up was on the same level as trying to pull freakin’ teeth. It’s not going to be nearly as painstakingly difficult now, Kraglin realizes as Pete’s face all but crumbles, his earlier facade disintegrating along with it.

“I saw her,” he says, like he’s admitting some awful crime. “I keep hearing her and then I  _ saw _ her, just now, and…” He squeezes his eyes shut. “Am I going crazy, Krag? She’s  _ dead. _ She’s dead but she’s  _ everywhere.” _

As if things couldn’t get awful enough, Quill noticeably flinches, squeezing his green eyes shut for the last time.

Because when they reopen, they’re bright orange.

He’s still on his feet but, much to Kraglin’s horror, he stumbles over to the wall, bracing himself against it before sliding down to his knees.

Kraglin means to run over to him, he does, but his hesitation leaves him edging closer and closer to Peter, slowly approaching his shaking form. Pete slides down from his knees and, in what appears to be his final moments of awareness, lands on his bottom with his knees out in front of him.

His head, tipped back to rest against the freezing red bricks, becomes a display for two glowing orange eyes, fixed resolutely on an unseen force in front of him.

Snow falls down onto the Terran’s porcelain skin, its biting cold doing little to snap the man back into awareness.

Kraglin’s hand goes to grab for his communicator, but he stills, unable to look away from the piercing orbs glaring steely ahead, looking as if they’re ready to burn a hole through the d’asted brick wall. It’s enough to give him chills, something that should be entirely impossible given everything he’s witnessed over the years.

Peter makes no noise, no movement beyond staring ahead, a haunted and frozen look on his face.

The Contraxian alley is quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please leave kudos, reviews, or drop in your favorite quotes! ;)


	9. Tiny Dancing Flame

_ Something’s wrong, _ Peter thinks as he crashes down to his knees.

The brunt impact of landing directly onto his kneecaps should hurt. The frigid snow beneath his palms should bring something other than complete numbness, he knows.

Except it doesn’t. They don’t. He feels nothing as his back slides against the brick wall. 

The numbness is nice, _ almost, _ a break from the searing sting in his side and the constant ache in his chest. His legs have become jelly, his vision all but gone in a haze of vibrant colors unlike those he has ever seen before. 

This time, when he finds himself back amongst shallow water and orange skies, he doesn’t scream and shout.

He _ smiles. _

“Y’know, this is friggin’ great, actually!” he says, laughing out loud. His voice is still that of a child’s, only furthering the manic state behind the outburst. “Don’t know why I’ve been fighting it this whole time.” Peter takes a small step forward, turning his head towards the sky before lowering it to stare directly ahead. 

He doesn’t flinch when she appears in front of him. If his body didn’t feel like a sunken bag of rocks, drifting further and further to the bottom, he might have.

She squints in confusion, as if trying to process the words that she’s hearing. There’s that soft look on her face again, the one that never fails to be there when he needs it most.

He doesn’t buy it. Not for a second.

Peter looks around, studying the atmosphere in depth for the first time. There’s nothing but flat land for miles and miles and what is almost certainly miles and miles beyond that.

“I’ve gotta say, though. Would’ve expected my brain to have a little more creative juices than…” He pauses, gesturing aimlessly and waiting for the right words to come. “..._ well — _ than _ this.” _

Gamora fixes a serious gaze on him. She hesitates for a moment. “You still think this is fake,” she enunciates slowly, cocking her head in what appears to be an attempt to get a read on him.

“Not that I’m complaining though,” he says, ignoring the illusion. He speaks out loud to drown out the stifling silence that surrounds them. “I guess my brain could’ve sent me to a fiery hellscape. S’not the worst hallucination, s’far as psychotic breaks go.” 

Her eyes go wide as she shakes her head. “No, _ Peter--” _

“Don’t.” His voice breaks. She steps closer. “Stand _ back!” _ he snaps, grabbing his hair with his hands and tugging at the strands mercilessly. His eyes clench shut, blocking out the massive wave of anxiety that attacks his body.

Her face crumples and his heart shatters in turn, dropping the pieces into the pits of his stomach. His heart reduces itself to glass shards, slicing and tearing at the inner walls of his body. She does as she’s asked, taking a small step back and never once looking away from his face. Her eyes are still wide, slightly wet and puffy. He doesn’t look any longer than he has to.

He thought he could be pragmatic about this. He can’t. There is no way he’ll survive this. 

His hands shake from where they’re tangled up in his curls. He has to restrain from pulling each strand out of his goddamn head.

“I know this isn’t real. I know _ you’re _ not real,” Peter says, his voice thick as mud. He opens his eyes, not having realized they were closed in the first place, his expression torn between sobbing and laughing hysterically again. 

“Do you?” She deadpans, completely serious. If Peter didn’t know any better he’d say she’s challenging him.

“Do I what?”

“Do you _ know _ that?”

Peter shakes his head, fighting off the frustrated tears that assault his eyes with their excessive warmth. “I-- _ Yes! _That’s--” He digs his fingernails into his skin, growing only more frustrated when the pain fails to come to him in this illusion. “Of course I do!”

She quirks her brow, her expression of pure love and concern never once leaving her face. “Really? It doesn't seem that way.”

He barks out a laugh. _ “Oh, _ doesn't _ seem _ that way. Got it. Well, you’re the one that’s basically a figment of my fucked up brain, anyway! Why don't you tell me what I _ know?” _

“We weren’t given this time to _ waste it, _Peter,” she says kindly, though not lacking that deep sense of urgency that she tends to carry with her. His brain knows her mannerisms well. “I can see more than what’s visible here,” she admits quietly, as though ashamed.

She shifts on two feet, leaning slightly heavier on her right side. Her lips lift into a soft curve. His breath catches instantly, a feeling so swift it’s almost like someone strode over and punched him in the stomach. Tears well up in his eyes as he watches her move. 

Fake or not, weeks ago he would have killed to see her face, any version, one last time. He _ has _ killed for her, in fact, and would do it a billion more times whether he was promised the chance to see her or not. He’s been wanting this for almost two months, except this encounter only feels like it’s tearing apart his insides. 

“Your soul is… _ fragmented,” _ she explains. “It’s never been as severe as it is now.” Gamora hesitates, steadying her breath. “I don't know how I know that, but… _ I do. _ You don't know it but you’re protecting it from further damage now. As best as you can with this... _ denial. _It’s a defense mechanism that you’re unaware of.”

Peter huffs, his breath caught somewhere between heavy and wet. “I-- Don’t you think I want this to be real? Don’t you think I’d drop everything, do _anything_ to get her back? To get _you_ back?” he asks with a soft crack in his voice, biting down on his tongue to keep from crying. “It hurts without her. It hurts _so bad. _I wake up every morning, the mornings I’m even able to sleep despite all this goddamn pain and grief, and I-- It’s like I can't process that you’re not there. I can't accept that this is reality, that something so horrible could ever be _true._ _Stars,_ I can’t breathe. Without you there with me, _Mora, _I can’t _breathe--”_

She steps closer, moving to wrap her arms around his form as soon as she’s close enough to do so. He reciprocates the gesture reluctantly, and then as desperately as ever, moving to bury his face into her shoulder. She runs a hand alongside his back, moving up to cradle the back of his head. He shivers at her touch, the hairs on his arm sticking up with the contact, his entire body trembling.

And for the first moment in forever.

Peter can breathe again.

She pulls back slightly to level a soft gaze on him, her small arms moving to grasp his forearms. She’s so beautiful — her brown wisps framing the sides of her face, her lips pulled up into a slight smile, her eyes shining as bright as the triplet suns on Xandar. There’s a Gamora shaped hole in his heart, demanding to be filled, beating twice as hard at the sight of her. He could collapse with joy, grief, and elation all at the same time. He wants to believe that she’s real. He wants that more than anything.

“I’m here. You have me. _ This, _ Peter... _ this is reality.” _

And just like that, he breaks.

He would topple over if not for her arms grasping tightly onto his. He allows one sob to escape his throat, another following soon after. And, suddenly, he’s leaning almost completely onto her, resting his head on her shoulder.

His body is overcome with sobs, his entire existence trembling and shaking as he cries into her collarbone. She whispers something to him, something reassuring he guesses, but the words are lost amongst the warbled wail that rings in his head. His hands grip her waist so tight that it’d probably bruise her outside of this place, even considering the modifications she has that make her practically immune to those.

“I-- I--” Peter sobs. He lifts his head. “It can’t be-- This can’t be real… it’s--”

She runs another hand down his back. He still shivers at the touch, nearly jumping out of his skin. _ Is it possible to feel trapped and comforted at the same time? _ He leans into it all the same. “Breathe,” she says. “Breathe. Then speak.”

“Sorry. S-sorry, I--” Peter gulps. “I just don’t… If this isn’t real, Mora. If this isn’t real, I don’t think I’ll be able to keep going once I’m-- once I’m _ back. _ And if-- if it is… _ real…” _

He lets go of her and steps back, running a hand down his face, catching drops of wetness with his small palm.

“I can’t face you. I can’t face you after everything I did and-- and everything I _ failed _ to do. So yeah, it’s easier. It’s easier to pretend that I _ know _ this is all fake and it’s not some crazy stone voodoo or something. Because the alternative is that you’re actually standing in front of me and I… I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t love me anymore or if… or if you _ hate _ me, but I still love you like crazy. I love you so fucking much and it’s _ too _ much and I’m absolutely falling apart without you. So tell me this is real or don’t because I won’t last one more second not knowing. _ Please.” _

Gamora grabs his hand, small and miniature as it is, and gently guides him to follow her. She keeps a tight hold on him as they walk. 

His feet feel as though they’re floating. He should be glad for it, the lack of pressure on his sore legs, but he isn’t. Somehow, it only worsens the sickness in his stomach.

“These are the pillars of my homeworld,” she says, nodding up at the tall, detailed structure. “Well, false projections of them. The Soul World fabricated them from my own memories, I assume.”

“The Soul World,” he repeats. “That’s what this is?”

“Yes,” she sighs, grabbing his other hand and facing him directly. “Peter, I cannot begin to imagine how difficult this must be for you. I don’t pretend to. But we don’t have a lot of time. I wish more than anything that I could make this easier for you, _ Peter, _ but I don’t know that I know how.” She looks up at him, her eyes shining. “Please. Please believe that this is real. Believe that _ I’m _ real. I wish I could give you more than that.”

His dejected posture sinks even further at that, his leg bouncing up and down, furthering the tapping and swirling of the liquid below.

Peter bites his lip to keep from crying out, nodding his head slightly. “Okay,” he says finally. “Okay, what do we do? I can’t be sure… about any of this, but you said we don’t have a lot of time, right? What’s next?” Peter sniffs, fighting to keep his intense storm of emotions at bay. He’s conflicted, in a lot of ways, but there is a tiny spark of hope inside him that he’s tempted to let see the light of day.

Gamora smiles, that tight lipped, heavily emotional smile that he only sees when she’s moments away from falling apart. “We will get to that. But, first, Peter…” She lets go of his hands and reaches up to caress his cheek. “I love you, so _ so _ much. Infinitely. I’ve never stopped loving you. And you have _ never _ failed me.”

He doesn’t trust his voice to respond. He nods instead, leaning heavily onto the palm that rests there.

Peter finds his voice after a moment, choosing to question what he’s been pondering since he first arrived. “Why are we children?” he asks.

“The Soul Stone is a Stone of sacrifices. It values innocence in Its sacrifices. Hence why Its retrieval requires the sacrifice of something loved. Something special,” she says bitterly, her words as sharp as razor blades. She looks down at her traditional Zehoberei clothing and then back up to his black and blue eye. “I assume we are taking the form of ourselves the day that our childhood innocence died,” she says, drawing her hand away from his cheek and back against her chest.

“Perfect,” Peter whispers under his breath. He fidgets with the hem of his shirt, unable to look away from his tiny fingers and skinny legs. He hasn't felt this vulnerable since the day his mother died, so maybe it’s fitting that he takes the form of that small, terrified child now.

“We’re not very good at this yet. It’s hard on your soul to return to the Soul World,” she says, unprompted.

“Return?” he asks, looking back up, his eyes wide and cold, seeking the warmth of her truth.

She nods. “I have found myself aware and conscious in this world five times,” Gamora explains. “Each time has not been for very long, as far as I can tell with my inability to track time here. The sky has always remained the same shade of burnt orange that it was the first time I awoke here, the moment after Thanos snapped his fingers.”

His breath hitches when he hears that name again. He doesn’t think there will ever be a day where that changes.

“When Thanos disappeared from my sight, back to our reality, my consciousness disappeared. It was like I was asleep, though on a much deeper level,” Gamora says. She paces, an action so unlike her that it’s almost hard to watch. It’s like watching a caged bird, opening and closing their wings in a desperate attempt to fly again. “Even though I was not entirely conscious in this realm, I felt the arrival of trillions of souls. I felt _ your _soul here, Peter.”

His face twists in confusion and shock. He looks around once more, as if he expects to find something that will jog his memory. “We were here? The snapped?” His brow furrows. “If I was here, wouldn’t I have remembered?”

She shakes her head. “Not necessarily. Not if you weren’t in a state of consciousness.”

Peter doesn’t begin to try to wrap his head around that. “So that was your first time,” he says, carefully vocalizing each syllable to avoid slipping into the metaphorical dark pit that’s looming beneath his feet, waiting to pull him under. “What about the other times?”

“The second time, I found the Soul World empty again. Empty except for one other soul. A Terran woman, I think, one of the ones Thor told us about.” Gamora's body stills at the same time his muscles tense up at the reminder of that day. “I knew that she was new here, and I knew that they had just succeeded in bringing all of you back.”

“Natasha Romanoff,” Peter says. That name has been seared into his brain since the day he got back. How could he forget the name of the woman who died from the same fate as the woman that he loves? “She’s one of the Avengers. She died when they traveled back in time to retrieve the stones. She died on Vormir…”

Gamora must sense his discomfort at this topic. She studies his expression, as if she’s trying to find something there. She takes the steps needed to reach him and grabs his hands, urging him to continue.

“So then that’s why she ended up here? That’s where the… where the _ sacrifices _ go?” He squeezes her hands, whether to comfort her or himself, he doesn’t know.

She nods. “I had those suspicions myself, but I didn’t have any time to ask questions. That period of awareness was even shorter than the first.” She looks away from his gaze, still holding onto his hands. “I haven’t seen her since, but I know that she is here.”

Gamora goes silent for a beat before speaking, her eyes searching the landscape just as his had only minutes ago. “The third time was different. I was here, my soul I mean, but I could somehow see things. Projections, maybe. I could see flickers of things happening beyond my reach. I saw _ you.” _

Peter scrunches his brow. “Saw me? What did you see?”

“It felt like the barrier was thinner somehow. Like I could somehow reach out and touch you. I couldn’t, of course, but I did try to reach out in other ways. That, I think, worked.” Gamora’s expression softens as she runs her thumb along the backside of his left hand. “Vormir, Peter, I saw you on Vormir.”

It all comes together, like a bunch of forgotten puzzle pieces resurfacing from the dusty trenches of an old dresser, the pieces broken and jagged yet forced together with flarkin’ glue anyway. It all makes sense to him now, the voices, the eerie feeling he felt as he climbed to the top of the d’ast mountain. She could see him. She was _ there. _

“That was you?” he croaks. “You were there? Talking to me, the voice in my head… I thought that was my fucked up way of coping or… or just grief or-- That was you?!”

Gamora laughs, a hysterical giggle that’s both suspiciously wet and lacking mirth altogether. “I tried to get your attention. I didn’t know why at the time, but the Stone was insistent on keeping you away from Vormir. It told me to stop you.” She squeezes his hands in soft, short pulses, without knowing it. “When reaching you didn’t work, I tried to reach the others. I could sense Rocket and Drax, but the connection was weaker. I wanted to know why.”

Peter is stunned into silence. Vormir is not something he ever wants to talk about again, but he knows that this will help clear the fog in his brain. He needs to know what happened.

“It didn’t make much of a difference, anyway. The team came and did my job for me. As soon as Mantis used her powers on you, I went back to being unaware.”

One thing still doesn’t make sense. Lots of things don’t, but there’s one thing in particular. “Why did the stone want you to stop me?”

Gamora nods in approval, signifying that he’s asking the right questions. “That’s what I wanted to find out. Especially since the next two times were both similar. I saw you every time.”

“Saw me how?” Peter asks. The eerie feeling returns, snatching his breath and covering his arms with small bumps.

“I saw you and the team on a mission the fourth time. You were in a dark building. You were--” She pauses, choking on her words. “You were running out of air. It looked like you were _ dying.” _

“Wait, but I saw you. I saw you right next to me. I thought that was because of oxygen deprivation. You’re telling me that I actually saw _ you? _ You were really there?” He can’t keep his voice from cracking this time, the words leaving him faster than his tongue can keep up with.

She sighs, looking more wary than he’s ever seen her. “It scared me when I realized you could see me too. I didn’t know what that meant for you, whether your soul was drifting too. I thought you were _ dying, _ Peter.”

His throat clenches shut. He bites at the bottom of his lip and curses the lack of pain once more. “I thought so too. For a second I wanted to,” he admits, regretting saying it almost immediately.

Gamora visibly winces at that, letting go of his hands and moving to run her palms down his sides a few times over. The contact is probably one of the only things keeping him pieced together. “The fifth time,” she continues, with a visible measure of discomfort, “was the longest of them all. In fact, this is the fifth time. I have been aware ever since then.”

“When did it start?” he asks.

“I woke up and you were here. You were on the ground, pushing yourself up. You called my name… a few times. Then you disappeared.” She drops her arms and paces a few steps to her right again, looking up at the infuriatingly orange sky. “I expected to go back to that blank state, but I never did.”

She continues. “I kept trying to reach you. The flickers came to me one by one. I knew that the same thing was happening to you. I could almost _ feel _ your soul phasing back and forth, entering and exiting both realms. The Stone was more insistent than ever. It was like It _ needed _ me to reach you.” She walks back towards him, running one hand down his arm once their faces are inches apart. “Some time after that, you visited the Soul World again. Do you remember that?”

He nods. “I thought I was losing my mind,” Peter says. “Am I?”

“No,” she says, her voice nearly breaking. “Your soul is in pain,” she says, almost too calm for a statement as profound as that. “You are not crazy Peter. This is more than one person should ever have to go through.”

“Same goes for you,” he croaks. He untenses slightly, reaching out to run his thumb across her cheek. It takes everything in him to not crumble down to his knees.

“Yes,” she agrees easily. “You did not believe this was real then either. The Stone urged me to keep trying. So, I did. I tried and I tried and nothing worked. Nothing until _ now.” _

He winces. “When I saw you on Contraxia,” he says. “In the alley.”

Her face twists into an expression he can’t quite read. _ Guilt, concern, regret. _ It could be anything, really. “After you killed that man.”

He thinks part of him should be offended at her bluntness, but he isn’t. It’s true. He wants to examine the parts of him that feel hollow and dark, but he doesn’t think he would last a second if he tried. “After I killed that supporter of Thanos,” he amends, too unsure of himself to completely justify his actions. _ “I saw you. _ I saw you and then I… I was here. Wait, am I still on Contraxia?”

“Your body is there. Your soul is here,” she explains. She refuses to drop that look of conflicting emotions, causing the sick feeling to return to the depths of his stomach. She’s never looked at him with quite this much scrutiny before. It’s as if she’s analyzing the fabric of his existence, which, after the stuff she was saying about his soul only minutes ago, she’s probably very capable of doing right now.

Peter sputters. “My soul? How-- I--”

“A body can survive without a soul for a short time. Not forever. That is why our time is limited.” She unearths a deep, tired sigh. He wonders whether she’s falling apart at the seams too. She has always been the type to set aside her afflictions in the face of imminent threat, or in this case, when their world is set ablaze in fucking hellfire and he’s too much of a basket case to do anything about it.

“And when exactly is that time up?” Peter says. He sounds pretty concerned, surprisingly, for a guy who hasn’t shown much concern regarding his physical wellbeing until now. He thinks that maybe it’s that spark of hope again, begging to be given a match and about ten gallons of lighter fluid.

She smiles and all is bright again. He wonders if she can see it in him too, that tiny dancing flame within his soul, still surrounded by inky blankness threatening to smother it like a blanket. “The Stone will tell us when you must return. Like me, It has been very adamant that you stay _ alive, _ which is kind of the entire point. Every single time I came into awareness, it had something to do with you. Every time I was sent to protect _ you, _ from various stages of danger, whether from yourself or some outside threat.” She exhales shakily. “The Stone was waking me to protect you. It _ needs _ you.”

“Needs me how? Why?” What does he have to offer anyone? He’s proven numerous times that he doesn't amount much in the face of conflict. Failure after failure, he has shown that. Why anyone still trusts him is beyond his level of understanding.

“The Infinity Stones are complicated things,” she says. “They respect power just as much as they respect purity. They value strength but not when that strength lies within individuals who do not possess pure intentions.”

“They seemed to have no problem listening to Thanos’ demands,” Peter points out. He can’t restrain himself from lacing his words with bitterness. His anger isn’t aimed at her, _ never her, _ but in his book, anything that so much as thinks about helping that genocidal maniac could never be on their side. The only side they belong on is at the business end of his blade, pierced straight through the heart. If only Infinity Stones had hearts; he would love nothing more than to impale them with the length of the Godslayer.

Gamora shrugs instead of flinching, probably restraining herself from reacting instinctively to that name as well. “Respect and compliance are two very different things. Thanos’ strength granted him the ability to wield the Stones, but the Stones did not have to respect that strength or purpose. Does that make sense?”

“Not really,” he says. “But continue. What does that have to do with us?”

“On Xandar, when you grabbed the Power Stone, you relinquished the Stone from Ronan, a being whose intentions were of evil origin. Your altruism, paired with our team’s unity, left you with a special connection to that Stone. It _ chose _ you.”

“Does that have anything to do with the _ symptoms _ I had? After Xandar?” Peter asks.

He will never be able to forget the phantom pains he felt in his hand even months after Xandar, and the nights where his dreams were full of screams and a never ending violet inferno—tearing apart his body with the sheer magnitude of the Power Stone’s power. He remembers the moment that the Milano left Xandar—the searing pain that struck every nerve ending, every muscle, and every red blood cell unlucky enough to be a part of his body. He remembers months of unwelcome urges, an incessant and impulsive desire to possess that power once more.

She winces. That time wasn’t particularly kind to any of them. “Yes. You have had a connection with the Power Stone ever since then. It presented itself in lots of ways that we did not see clearly at the time.” 

“What about the others? What about _ you? _ I wasn’t the only one who held the stone.” It’s true after all. They all shared similar symptoms, though not quite as severe. It only makes sense that they would share this _ connection _ too, considering handling the stone was a group effort. Celestial or not, he doesn’t think he would have survived another second of that pain without them there by his side.

“Yes. We all share a connection with it of sorts, though on a much weaker level. You were the first to hold it. You held it the longest. Your intention was to risk your life to grab the Stone, thinking at the time that you would likely not survive. The Stone recognized that sacrifice.”

He swallows, wincing at the implications of that. “And because of that... _ sacrifice--” _He doesn’t think he’ll ever be comfortable with that word again. “It chose me? To have this connection?”

She nods. “The Stones are very familiar with each other. Together, they control the aspects of our reality as we know it. Because of that, they are connected. Brothers and sisters, essentially.”

There isn’t a single part of this that doesn’t sound batshit crazy. He still can’t be sure that any of this is real, that this isn’t still some trick of his grief-riddled brain. He’s heard stories of beings who undergo immense stress, losing their grip with reality as a means to cope with unimaginable circumstances. He’s no mental health expert, wouldn’t even consider himself a physical health expert, but there are similarities here that even _ he _ can’t deny.

On the other hand. Maybe, just maybe, it’s crazy enough to be true.

Maybe this is real. And if it is, he’d be crazy not to take every single opportunity to make their reality right again. He’d be a fool to not take this chance and run with it.

Fuck it, even if this is fake, when has he ever been opposed to living in ignorant bliss? When has he ever refused a perfectly functional coping mechanism, despite the harm that may befall him because of it? No, because if it’s this or his current reality, he would choose a lie every time.

“So since I have this… _ connection _ with the Power Stone. And you with--”

Gamora inhales, looking relieved for reasons he can’t quite make out. “The Soul Stone, as one of its sacrifices.”

“We have a connection with each other. That’s how you can reach me. Because of the link between the stones.”

She shrugs, her tiny shoulders bouncing with the movement, her pink braids swinging beside her head. “Yes. That is the simplest way to put it. In actuality it is much deeper and more complex than that, but _ yes. _ The connection we share is a direct result of our contact with our respective Stones.”

Peter squints. It still comes into question why the d’ast Soul Stone is so insistent on not letting him throw himself off the side of a cliff. “That doesn’t explain why the Soul Stone wants me alive,” he says.

She goes still, and for a moment he thinks that she won’t respond at all. She looks him deep in the eyes, a gaze rooted in deep sympathy. “It says that It may be able to grant you a way to release Its sacrifices from this realm.”

His eyes widen. “Why does it want you to be released? And how is it even _ speaking _ to you?” He doesn’t like the thought of some all-powerful stone messing with her mind. There is no way for him to know how or if being here has affected her. He wants nothing more than to hold her tight in their bed back on the Benatar, promising to try to make things right for the both of them. 

He doesn’t know how he’d even begin to do that, but if he’s given that chance damn right he’s gonna try.

“Not with words,” she explains vaguely, only furthering that eerie feeling that he hates so much. “The Stone no longer answers to Thanos now that he is dead,” she pauses, her gaze shifting down towards the water. “It believes that you may be able to help It with something, in exchange for our release.”

He would ask her how she knows about the Mad Titan’s death, but he fears he wouldn't like the answer. 

“And how am _ I _ supposed to help an older-than-the-galaxy-itself, sentient space stone?”

_ He can’t even help his team. He can’t help those real, living, breathing people that he cares so much for. So much that it still catches him by surprise 4 years later. _

“Thanos reduced It and Its brothers and sisters to ash. Mere atoms. The Stone believes that with enough energy they can reform into their desired constitution. Then we would return them to a place where no being may interfere with them,” she says.

Peter purses his lips as he concentrates, brow furrowing. Energy can mean a number of things. The first thing that comes to mind are his blasters, gone and forgotten somewhere on either the Milano or Benatar now that he’s pretty much exclusively relying on the Godslayer.

_ Think bigger, _ the Soul World supplies to him, as if it’s his birth-right to hear those words. Of course that flarkin’ stone is communicating with him now too. It’s too bad the stupid thing can’t offer anything even slightly more helpful than that. There aren’t many options he can come up with off the top of his head.

Maybe Rocket can come up with something, is his only lead. _ Stars _ know he occupies his time with engineering crazy ass inventions like that anyway, when he’s not being all buddy buddy with Thor and--

Wait.

His eyes flare up, inspiration igniting an inferno that clears some of that darkness in his head. This is his lighter fluid, his hope, the stray match that summons the flame. “Energy? Energy like lightning? Because we have a _ god _ on the Benatar that can summon that at will.”

“I don’t know,” Gamora admits. “I do not think the Stone would send me to you if It did not believe this was something you would be able to do. If you believe that Thor’s lightning would work, then that is likely what the Stone sent me to you for.”

Peter engulfs her in the biggest hug he can, lacking the mass and width for the comfort she’s used to. This time, she leans into his touch, burying her face into the crook of his neck. “That’s it babe. I know it is. I’ll figure this out.” He runs one trembling palm down her back. “I _ promise. _ I won't let you down this ti--”

She shushes him with a finger to the lips. Her finger lingers for a second before her hand slides back up to his cheek. Her eyes are alight with a familiar incandescence, the orange sky reflecting off of the honey browns of her irises. Gamora levels him with that look she reserves for moments when he’s let his insecurities slip back out again, to the point that it pains her to hear him speak like that. He’s never felt more loved than when she is around. She’s loved the ugliest parts of himself for so long, so effortlessly that it’s almost as if they aren’t ugly at all, rather strips of solid gold, intertwined between their beating hearts.

“Peter, the Stone was clear in mentioning that only you may wield It once they are reformed. Only you can use the Soul Stone to bring us back, Natasha too. Okay?” she says.

He nods, so dizzyingly quick that his mind swirls in tune with the water beneath his feet. “Yes. I’ll be here. I’ll get you out. Both of you.”

“I know you can do this,” she says, moving her thumb to wipe the smooth but wet skin at his cheek. “I don't know what’s going to happen, but I do know that you are strong. And brave,” Gamora says. Her eyes begin to redden, bringing forth tears that roll steadily down her face. “Remember that I’m always with you. I’ll always be with you.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but all he hears is a violent pop in his eardrums as his vision goes cloudy white. 

The light shocks his senses, filling his eyes as the brightness expands, covering every inch of him until he’s not sure where the light ends and he begins. The light flickers in and out, like little white embers setting his pupils aflame.

That is all he knows until white embers morph into falling snowflakes, his consciousness returning to present reality with the force of a protostar. Where Gamora was once buried in his arms, a familiar red jacket covers them now, smelling of gasoline and soot.

He lifts his head up straight, coming face to face with the owner of said jacket, staring him down with wide eyes. Kraglin’s demeanor consists of nothing more than anxiety and apprehension, paired nicely with the way his form trembles as he sits knee deep in the white powder below them. Peter himself feels as if he’s been set over a stove, his thoughts bouncing wildly back and forth, ready to jump out from under his skin.

“Pete?” Kraglin says, waving a hand in front of his face before snapping, testingly. Peter flinches back, surprised at the way Kraglin’s entire face lights up at his very noticeable discomfort. “Uh, yer with me now, right?”

Peter nods, not trusting his voice or any words he could manage to conjure up right now. It’s unbelievable how much being in Gamora’s presence had brightened up his soul. Without her, he feels like his heart is just as dead as the evidence of his wrongdoings, lying slack and broken only several feet away.

Kraglin, however, does not seem to have any problem coming up with things to say. “Ah, good, that’s good,” he mumbles. “Called that team of yers, hope that’s alright. Jus’ didn’t know what t’do an’... this ain’t the type’a place any one of us should be in right now.” He gestures around them, pointedly avoiding looking directly at the dead body. “Could be more of them… uh-- comin’ back to git ya after what you did to one’a their own. Also, what with those eyes of yers… glowin’ and… _ why _ were they glowin’ anyway?” Kraglin rambles, his voice rising a couple of octaves as he spirals deeper into his own confusion.

Peter looks around them, scanning their surroundings on the off chance that Kraglin is onto something and there are more of those supporters after all. “Can’t talk here,” he says, his voice catching a little at the end.

Kraglin nods quickly, looking extremely relieved to hear what was only three words on his part. “Called ‘em ‘bout an hour ‘go. Shouldn’t take ‘em much longer.” Krag winces. “Would’ve got us outta the snow, but you ain’t exactly that skinny lil’ brat that you used’ta be.”

“An hour?” Peter exclaims. Kraglin’s reds slip off his form as he moves to sit ramrod straight. He picks them up and offers them to the Xandarian, to which Kraglin accepts with a comforted sigh as he shrugs them over his shoulders. Peter fixes his gaze on the snow, as if it carries the answers that he’s searching for. “That can’t be possible.”

Kraglin looks down at his holo. “Almost down to the minute,” he says. “What the flark jus’ happened, Pete? I think I’m gonna need that explanation now.”

Peter bolts up and onto his feet, nearly losing his footing as he leans against the wall to keep himself upright. His stiff legs burn with the aftershock of sitting in the snow in an unfavorable position for far too long, his side bleeding anew now that he has managed to rip open several of his poorly done stitches.

He wipes his hand across his cheek to clear it of fresh wetness. He probably shouldn’t be surprised when he catches sight of black streaks as he pulls the appendage back into his line of sight. In fact, he’s covered in it, dripping from his hands down and into the space between his jacket sleeves. His face is undoubtedly speckled with it as well, forbidden constellations lining the paleness of his skin.

His hands shake as they fall back to his sides. He strides over to the black-laced, silver sword lying forgotten in the snow. He lifts it in front of him and studies it before sheathing it by his belt.

Kraglin’s breath hitches at the sight of the weapon. “You sure you should be handlin’ that thing right now?” he asks.

“S’not mine,” Peter mumbles. “How’s about we go return it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd love to hear your thoughts on this one...
> 
> As always, please leave kudos, reviews, or drop in your favorite quotes! :))


	10. Adrift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! long time no talk!
> 
> i’ll spare you the long explanation of why i haven’t posted in months. it’s fairly boring and i’m sure anyone who exists in 2020 can relate. to make a long story short, i recently moved into my first apartment for college! I was finding trouble managing time and figuring out when to write amidst lots and lots of schoolwork, but i managed to figure it out + begin to finalize the end of this fic!
> 
> i want to thank everyone who has commented asking about this fic. whenever i see a comment, i really do open my word document and try to get some more done. i appreciate you more than you could ever know.
> 
> with that out of the way, here’s the next chapter! if you have to get a quick refresher, i suggest skimming the last chapter! :)

Kraglin was right, it turns out, about the amount of time it would take for the remaining Guardians to reach them on Contraxia.

One minute Peter is barely managing to keep himself upright, swaying on his feet as he sheathes the Godslayer, and the next...

Off to his left, there is yelling—loud warbled shouts that leave his body riddled with barely perceptible tremors. He hears something on the grounds of, _ “..one job! You had one job!” _ and _ “This is why I said… the Quadrant! Unless you’d… caught by the Nova Cor… with a body in flarkin’ broad daylight!”_, but the words are little more than muffled conversations to him.

He flinches when two hands meet his flesh, pale and soft hands that expertly grab him by the wrists to avoid the mess of both red and black blood coagulated on his shaking appendages.

His right fist clenches, instantly bringing forth searing pain that shoots up the length of his injured hand. The amount of pure adrenaline that had been coursing throughout his body earlier has amounted to a dull roar. His breath hitches when he feels a curious thumb swipe over his knuckles, rendering him momentarily blind as another wave of agony crashes over him, overtaking his vision with specks of white and blue that come together to form the brightest light he has ever seen.

He comes back to himself with heaving inhales and stuttering exhales, clenching his teeth so tightly that his jaw nearly pops with the immense pressure of it. Mantis’ sympathetic face greets him when the light clears, her hands still loosely wrapped around his wrists. “Peter?” she says, her antenna wilted and flickering. “You are hurt.”

His brain shouts at him to agree. It screams out for acknowledgement of his suffering, sick of the cycle of isolation and denial that has left him alone and hurting for too long. His mind and body are tired of suffering in silence, basically demanding him to give Mantis the honest answer that’s buried inside him somewhere.

_ I’m not okay. _

“I’m f-fine,” he says, avoiding looking down at his hands and the pool of black blood he knows is beneath their feet. The lie hurts, like he expected it to, but he finds that his mind quickly finds other thoughts to become fixated on.

It’s weighing on him more than it should, the death he has just brought upon the supporter of Thanos that’s lying slack in a pool of his own blood, mere feet away. It could be the fact that he wasn’t expecting to walk into another fight, _ or _ that the man had made no moves to attack until Gamora’s sword had begun its assault on his body. It could also be the fact that the man had appeared almost _ peaceful _ until Peter had intervened, his only crime being his existence in that narrow alleyway.

Logically, he knows that’s not true. The man had committed many crimes. _ Assassination. Conspiracy. Murder. Genocide. _ The list goes on and on.

Emotionally, he can’t help but feel like his own actions aren’t justifiable this time. He can’t help but feel dirty, wrong, _ criminal. _

He imagines Gamora walking alone in a similar scenario, only to be murdered in cold blood due to her past crimes. Due to the crimes that Thanos had _ forced _ her to commit.

Who’s to say that this man wasn’t someone’s Gamora? What if he had just vowed to turn his life around? What if he too had decided to make right and begin to serve others? _ What if… What if… What if-- _

“Peter,” Mantis says again, bringing him back to the present. For all her help, it doesn’t seem to be doing much in terms of bringing down his anxiety. From her stricken face, it looks like she’s caught in it too, drowning in his anguish alongside him. 

He’s desperate for an anchor, and it’s costing him everything not to grab her and drag her under with him. He’s been treading water for months and his legs are finally giving out, too exhausted to keep his head above the waves any longer.

Now that he is no longer in the Soul World, he finds it even harder to believe in its existence. Being away from Gamora, it’s even harder to believe she was really there at all. But it is real. She was there. He has to believe that. He has to fuel that tiny flicker of hope inside of him or else it too will be sent beneath the waves.

Peter finds that even though his emotions are finally leveling out, enough to the point that he’s able to think somewhat clearly, his body certainly is not on the same page. His legs suddenly tremble beneath the weight of him, buckling and sending him back down to his knees, Mantis’ hands still clasped around his wrists as she lets out a soft gasp.

“Fuck,” Rocket lets out under his breath. Kraglin and Rocket’s screaming match must have ended without Peter’s knowledge, probably while he was lost in his roaring thoughts. 

Rocket scurries over on all fours, something that he has always reserved for dire circumstances, due to his obvious and understandable desire to be seen as a person and not an animal. The realization that he’s ignoring that innate desire in order to get to him quicker is not lost on Peter. There’s little he can do to ignore the guilt that resurfaces for letting down one of his best friends, especially one as loyal and dependable as Rocket.

“Fuck, Quill. What did you do?” he says. The bitterness and anger in his voice is a front that Peter understands well, too well to ever feel threatened by it. Rocket looks up at Nebula with a gaze that seems to speak more than words could, an understanding that crosses both of their faces simultaneously.

“N-nothing. I’m f-fine,” he says, releasing his wrists from Mantis’ grasp and moving instantly to clutch his side as it throbs relentlessly. His words are instantly rendered useless as he pulls his hands back into view and notices the fresh red blood seeping down from his hands and into the snow. Nebula crouches down instantly, practically ripping his shirt to inspect his wound.

Peter has never been one to scare at the sight of blood. He’s seen his fair share of wounds throughout his lifetime, many of them his own. So he’s not sure whether it’s the nausea or blood loss that darkens his vision as he lays his sights upon the unstuck, completely drenched bandage and the mess of oozing blood and thread making itself known from beneath it.

Mantis shrieks at the sight and it’s enough to shock his vision clearer. His movements feel sluggish as he turns to look at her, settling even further down onto his shins. “Blood!” she yells.

Nebula yanks off the bandage and pulls out the single piece of thread, barely hanging on as it is, and inspects his wound further. His drawn out hiss is interrupted by her words. “Is this what you considered _ a fix, _ Quill?” Nebula grimaces.

Rocket huffs. _ “Yeah… _ jus’ stick a needle and thread through the gaping hole in your side and call it a day. Real nice.”

Peter ignores them and plants both of his palms on the floor, preparing to push himself back up. She’s waiting for him. She has been waiting and reaching out for months in hope that he will finally make things right. Every single second that they spend sitting here on Contraxia is another second of opportunity that passes him by. 

And he won't make that mistake again. He already sat on Knowhere for five hours after she had been captured by Thanos in the first place, dooming her to a fate he might’ve prevented had he decided to get up and do something for once. He could have prevented loss for so many people. He can't pretend that his hands aren't filthy with the casualties he has wrought.

Rocket throws two hands in front of Peter’s face in what’s obviously intended as a stopping motion. “Woah, woah, woah. What the flark are you doing?”

“Getting up,” Peter says, hissing and clenching his teeth.

“Nuh uh. Nope. _ No, _ Quill,” Rocket snaps. “We thought you were _ dead. _ Dead, Quill. You understand me?” He shakes his head angrily, and it really might not be a front this time. Just plain, genuine anger seeping forth. “Can’t you see that this is killing you? You will _ die _ if you keep doing this shit! And I won't-- I _ can’t _ sit around and watch anyone else die. I can't. I only just got all of you back and it… it just--”

“It feels like you’re still dead!” Rocket yells. “You're my best friend, Quill… and it feels like you never even came back.”

Peter bites his lip and closes his eyes. “Maybe I didn't. Maybe something inside me is still dead.”

“Do you really believe that, dipshit? ‘Cause I sure as hell don’t!” Rocket yells. “Are you really that flarkin’ dense? _ Look. _ No one was expecting rainbows and sunshine. No one was even expecting you to be 100% yourself.”

Peter resigns himself to a sigh and sinks back onto his knees. He owes them this conversation. He just hopes that Gamora won't feel the passage of time any longer than these next few minutes dictate. “What were you expecting?”

“When we lost Gamora, and then we lost you guys, I always sorta knew that hers was more… _ permanent,” _ he winces. “You guys were only kind of gone,” Rocket explains. “I mourned Gamora for five years. Hell, I’m _ still _ mourning her every goddamn day. I would’ve been freaked out if you _ weren't _falling apart at the goddamn seams within the first week like you were.”

Peter squints. “Then what makes this any different?”

The raccoon sighs, and Peter senses an eye roll in there somewhere. “The difference is that I wasn’t expecting the guilt, the self-destruction, the flarkin’ martyr complex you’ve been running around trying to fulfill. Maybe I should’ve expected that, coming from you an’ all, but I thought that as long as you had us and we had each other… we’d be okay.”

Peter winces and presses back onto his side when a wave of agony hits him. He steadies himself, sitting straight up and looking Rocket directly in the eye. “I’m sorry,” he says. “That should have been enough.”

“But it wasn't,” Rocket huffs. _ “Obviously. _ It wasn’t enough. We all know that none of us will ever be able to fill the space that Gammie left behind. And that’s okay Quill, but just… _ damn it, _just be upfront about it. It never should have come to this.”

He can’t keep it in anymore. “We don’t have to fill that space,” he says as quickly as ever. “I know how to bring her back. She told me how. I _ saw her.” _

Peter sees flashes of confusion and concern cross each of their faces. Rocket in particular looks over at Nebula from where she’s still crouched down beside him. She glances at his bleeding wound once more and seems to make her own conclusions. “He is delirious,” she says. “Infection, probably.”

Frustration pools in his face like stagnant lava, leaving his face reddened as he grows more flustered. “I’m serious. I visited, _ went, _ whatever-you-want-to-call-it, to the Soul World. I saw her there! Remember how I told you on Vormir that I felt her there? She’s been trying to _ reach me _ since then _ . _ She knows how to escape, she knows how _ I _ can help her escape,” he says, the words tumbling out in a jumbled mess. He can hardly get his thoughts in order, let alone his words, as his vision grows increasingly warbled and fuzzy. 

Mantis grabs onto his hands, not seeming to care about the fresh blood that stains them, as she too bends down into the powdery snow. Her antenna begin to glow, sending a quick jolt of energy through him. He hadn't even realized how tired he was before. “I believe that he is telling the truth,” Mantis says. “At least, he thinks that he is.”

“Look. I’ll explain it all later, but _ please… _ believe me when I say I’m telling the truth,” he says.

Rocket shifts his weight awkwardly, avoiding direct eye contact. “Ah, _ hell, _ Quill. I don't think you’d lie about this kinda thing… but… could it be possible that what you saw wasn't _ actually _ reality, man?”

“His eyes were glowin’,” Kraglin says suddenly, saving him from the frustration of having to defend what he knows he’s seen. “Bright orange an’ everything. Never seen nothin’ like it.”

It chills him to his core, the thought of his eyes burning with the intensity of the Soul Stone, the very object that turned his whole life into heaps of ash.

“So... what? You’re saying that he actually traveled to the inside of some cosmic space stone? That really what we’re going with?” Rocket asks.

An intense migraine buries itself behind his eye sockets. “It’s-- _ ugh _ \-- it’s more complicated than that!” he says. His vision blurs again, sending another pang of nausea to the center of his abdomen. “Listen… I just--”

“Peter?” Mantis says amidst the sudden silence on his part.

He just needs to get his body in control. “Just give me a second… I--”

“Rocket, are you seeing that?” Nebula says, her voice empty.

He’s not sure when or how the world goes from vertical to horizontal, but it does with a flash of orange and a swift wave of agony.

His sense of hearing is the last to go, and a startled shout of his name is what he hears before he’s sent back into oblivion.

  
  
  


  
  
  


  
  
  
  


_ “They don’t believe you,” _ some fragment of a voice calls out to him.

— Orange fire overtakes him completely, where fiery heat contains nothing more than an empty cold, and —

“They don’t need to,” Peter replies.

  
  


— he feels as his soul phases through two realms, a push and pull that’s wound so tight it’s cutting off every inch of his existence, and —

  
  


_ “Oh but Peter Quill,” _

  
  


_ “your fault is in thinking…” _

  
  


_ “...you must face death…” _

  
  


** _“...alone.”_ **

  
  
  
  


Peter groans, clenching his shut eyes to ward off the overhead glare that threatens to incapacitate him through his eyelids. “Wha--” he groans, feeling as if his brain is performing barrel rolls behind his skull.

His eyes open on his own accord this time, his eyelids cracking open with the caution of a man glaring into the burning sun.

A stark white bandage covers the spot where his side continues to throb relentlessly, cleaner and less reminiscent of a 1970s horror film than earlier. If he had any strength to celebrate, he’d celebrate the fact that he somehow remained unconscious throughout the stitching and disinfecting process that likely occurred.

“Are they green?” a voice asks to his left.

Any answer to said question is promptly deferred, favoring the much less appealing option of shining another flarkin’ flashlight into his retinas.

“Ugh,” he groans out. “Seriously?”

The light disappears as Nebula retracts her hand, her face swimming with the afterimage of hundreds of black dots. They fade quicker than he expected them to. “Yes. They are back to normal,” she says, clinical and stiff-sounding, a tone that’s fundamentally abnormal even for her.

“Good,” Rocket’s voice rings out from beside him. The raccoon jumps onto the medbay bed, staring at him with such complexity that it’d take Peter an entire Earth year to dissect it all. “Maybe now he can get to explainin’ what the _ flark _ is going on.”

Peter hardly hesitates. “I know how to save her.”

“My sister is dead.” Nebula wastes no time hesitating either.

He takes advantage of the slight pause following her words to sit up in bed. His side burns with the intensity of the surface of a star, but he takes the pain as a motivator. Best to stick with the familiar when things exit his comfort zone. “Yes, but also no. She can be saved. She _ told _me so.”

“Quill, we wanna believe you. Kinda hard not to, with all…” Rocket gestures up at his eyes, though apparently they have returned to their standard hue. “All _ that. _ But this is crazy, even by your standards.”

Peter sighs. He’s already nursing a record-breaking migraine, and the last thing he wants to do is explain what he’s not even so sure of himself. “I know how it sounds, believe me. But the Soul Stone is out there. It’s been decimated, reduced to atoms, but if we return it to its original form…”

Rocket interjects. “What? We use it to get to the _ Soul World? _ Is that what we’re calling it?”

“I use it to bring Gamora back and the stone’s other sacrifice, Natasha. We return the stone to its original form and both of them will be returned to our world,” Peter explains.

A flash of recognition echoes in each of their faces, quickly diminishing into what Peter could best describe as stoicism.

Rocket is the first to break the beat of silence. “Let’s say we even believed that could be true, that the stone will ‘return them’ if we make it whole again. But how the _ flark _ are we supposed to stitch a buncha atoms back together? You think about _ that, _ Quill? I’m good, but even _ I’m _ not that good.”

This is easier, Peter thinks. It’s generally a good sign when Rocket starts asking questions. He wouldn’t dare entertain a possibility that he couldn’t envision as a possible truth.

“Gamora said that with enough energy, all of the stones would be able to reform. We could use the Soul Stone to bring them back, and then put the stones where they’re _ supposed _ to be. Better yet, we put them somewhere where no one will ever get their hands on them again,” Peter says, emphasizing that last part with all the will left in his soul.

Nebula pipes up. “Energy? Like--”

“Thor. He’s the answer to this, but the stone needed to use me as a link.”

They’re closer to acceptance, and Peter can maybe imagine some sliver of determination behind their glossy eyes, but it won’t be enough.

It’s never enough.

He’s never _ enough. _

Peter’s voice cracks. “_Please_. All I’m asking is that you just try to believe me. Even if I am crazy. Even if this is all for nothing… please, just give me this chance to prove it. Just let me _ try. _ For once, let me do something that’s _ worth something. _ Let me bring her back.”

He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until one of his tears lands straight into the palm of his right hand. He can imagine purple lines streaking down that same palm, glowing bright with power so unimaginable that it would churn the mind of anyone daring enough to take a peek inside. He can almost feel the essence of the Soul Stone calling out to him, in all it’s unfathomable glory, picking up the particles that define his soul and claiming them as its own.

He breaks that thought with a swift swipe beneath his eyes, erasing the tears from his flushed face.

“It’s not like we have anything to lose,” he finishes.

“There’s always something to lose,” Rocket mumbles under his breath. “But what the hell, that’s never stopped us before. Right?” He looks up at Nebula, silently declaring her the deciding vote. 

“No. It hasn’t,” Nebula says. She doesn’t let her eyes wander anywhere that isn’t directly into Peter’s eyes. If the eyes truly are the window to the soul, then his must have shattered into a million pieces under her gaze.

“Nebula—”

She shakes her head. “Stop,” she says. “No tricks. No self-martyrship. No leaving out a _ single _ detail of what my sister told you. If I am to believe in what you have seen then I will need specifics.”

Peter nods quickly. It’s an easy enough request. “Of course.”

“And you will,” Nebula replies. “After you are well enough to do so.”

Peter visibility bristles. He walks one step forward and he’s chucked fifty feet back. “Huh? I’m fine, and we don’t have a lot of time to spare—”

“The Garden isn’t exactly around the corner. I’ll tell Krag to set us on that course now,” Rocket says as he scans his holo. “And _ you,” _ he glares at Peter, “nearly disintegrated because of an infinity stone once, and that was back when you were flarkin’ immortal.” He gives him a quick once over. “You can’t help anyone like this, Quill.”

“The Garden?” Peter asks, ignoring that jab despite it being in good conscience. He’d rather pretend that the thought of wielding another infinity stone doesn’t terrify the absolute shit out of him. Who is he if not the guy who ignores his problems until he’s facing them head on?

“Planet 0259-S. It’s the place where Thanos used the stones to destroy the stones. If you are right about the remnants of the stones still existing, they are sure to be there,” Nebula says.

Rocket snorts. “It’s also where Blondie stuck his axe in that asshole’s neck. So I guess it’s not the absolute worst place ‘ve ever been.”

That sentence shouldn’t knock the wind out of him, but it does. It wasn’t that Peter wasn’t aware of the timeline merging that brought two Thanos’ into their timeline, but somehow it never crossed his mind that the Thanos they knew was the first to go.

The monster that brought the first initial wave of pain into their lives. The reaper, the murderer, the one who took everything from them and then some. That monster, the one who ended the life of his love in the most brutal way possible. That monster was executed by Thor. Right in front of his family, the people that lost even more than Peter is capable of imagining.

_ Fuck. _

All Peter can do is nod. “How long ‘til we’re there?” he asks.

“About one night cycle.” 

12 standard Earth hours—roughly enough time to explain the intricacies of the Soul World, recount his connection between said infinity stones, create a game plan, attempt to get his battered body on the same page, and try to keep himself from spilling over into a sea of anxiety and terror.

12 hours.

* * *

They refuse to let him out of bed the first two hours.

Hour one, they at least allowed him to explain everything that Gamora had told him, as well as every detail of the Soul World that he could manage to recall. They both listened intently, though each one of Nebula’s questions became more sharp and bitter the longer she spoke.

He passes the rest of the time by staring at the dark ceiling above his head. Knowing himself, attempting sleep would be an effort not worth his time.

He does close his eyes though, not for sleep, but in the hope that he’ll be sent back. If he tries hard enough, he can trace the outline of her face in the dark. He can imagine the curve of her cheek, the softness of her skin, and the way her lips part to let his in.

His emotions are another story.

He’s terrified, for one. The excitement he feels is more anxiety than anything, and the tiny flicker of hope inside his chest has erupted into a wildfire that's burning him from the inside out.

Peter sits up out of bed, yanking out the perfectly inserted iv that sits in the crook of his elbow. It stings, like a knee to the groin or a knife to his throat, except the memory is less likely to send him to his knees later on. Oddly enough, it keeps him going. Knowing that he can still feel anything other than soul crushing numbness is a feat that he shouldn't be proud of but definitely is.

His favorite part about the Quadrant has always been the availability of decent painkillers. He feels greater than he thought he could, at least physically, though there’s an odd sort of loopiness that he’s unable to shake. It floats around his eyes, soft and dizzying, but in a way that beckons his entire spirit to float off with the rest of his consciousness. Part of him already feels adrift—a soul lost in a realm unfamiliar, the brain of a celestial searching for anything to conquer, a thought that refuses to remain.

Adrift.

And he keeps up with that sentiment as he wanders the empty halls of the Quadrant. His hand, bruised and blackened, trails the cold walls, tracing the memories that lie there.

It’s no surprise that he ends up in the cockpit.

What’s surprising is the presence he finds there.

“Thor?” Peter says, sounding more shocked than he should.

“Quill,” Thor says. He looks up at him, his brows knitting in shock. “Uh, sit. Sit,” the god says.

Peter nods. He finds a seat in the co-pilot’s chair, not failing to realize how this specific dynamic would have sent him reeling just weeks ago. He feels no annoyance now though, just a sense of apprehension that is buried deep in his bones.

Neither one of them rushes to speak first. Peter fidgets at his belt, a habit that welcomes the empty void left by his Walkman and now the Godslayer too. The sword sits somewhere in the Quadrant also, enjoying its first moments of peace in months.

Thor clears his throat. “You think I can reform the stones,” he says. It’s not a question, not really, but he’s compelled to answer anyway.

“Yes,” Peter says. “I do.”

Thor nods. “And I do not have to warn you about how dangerous infinity stones are. That you know just as well as I do, right Quill?”

“Right. I’m pretty familiar with all of the potentially devastating results those fucking rocks can produce.” Peter sighs. “It’ll be a miracle if I never have to hear or think about them after this.”

Thor laughs. “But when do we ever get what we want?” he says. His voice sounds tired too. They’re all tired.

Peter laughs too. It’s fake and hollow. It hurts a little. “But you’ll do it? You’ll try?” he asks.

He swallows. “Yes. I will try. For Natasha,” he says.

Right. He doesn’t expect Thor to care about Gamora. They hardly spoke the first and only time they met, and it’s not like Thor got to know her personally or anything. But that doesn’t stop the unbridled rage that’s swelling up in his chest. He’s never met Natasha, but even he has the decency to care about her survival. At least he—

“And for you,” Thor continues after a beat, almost responding directly to his thoughts. “For your lady. The rabbit. The tree. All of you.” The god looks up. “My friends.”

That throws him for a loop. “Oh,” Peter says. “Thanks, I—”

“It’s the least I can do,” Thor interrupts. “I haven’t been the best… _ friend… _ since I met you, have I?”

Peter winces. “To be fair, I never really gave you a chance,” he says. “I don’t think I ever tried to see you as anything other than competition.”

Thor pauses for a moment, undoubtedly trying to process what Peter’s just said. “Why _ do _ you do that? Did I do something to make you feel threatened or—”

“No,” Peter says quickly, protecting that small part of him that’s still desperate to protect itself around Thor; his _ ego. _ Jesus, he hates using that word. “Well, _ yeah, _ actually.”

“What?” Thor asks. He sounds patient, and his tone of voice calms down the parts of him that feel the need to be defensive and accusatory.

He sighs. “I guess… I _ know _ that I’ve never felt more important than I do when I’m leading these guys. They’re the only family that I’ve ever had, or at least the only family I’ve got left. And then you crashed into our ship when the world was falling apart, with your huge muscles and functional god powers and I guess I just felt…” Peter pauses.

“Useless?” Thor offers.

Peter leans back into his seat, running his bruised hand down his face. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Thor inhales and clears his throat. “Before I crashed into your ship, Thanos murdered my brother right in front of me. My hands, my legs, my mouth—my whole _ body _ was bound. All I could do was watch,” Thor says. “When I woke up inside of your ship, all I knew was anger. All I could feel was the need for vengeance. I felt a sense of uselessness inside of me that was awoken the moment that Loki died and all I could do was sit there… and _ scream.” _

Thor wipes the fresh sheen of tears beneath his eyes. Peter could cry along with him, but he bites his tongue and pushes everything down.

“I had already lost everything,” Thor says. “You still had everything, _ everyone _ that you loved. I felt useless and angry and I had nothing else to lose. I separated your team and failed at the only task I had left to complete.” The god can't stop the tears now, letting them spill down his face. “Rocket hated me for that, I think, for a while. He hated that he wasn't there when you died. At least, I hated myself for it.”

Peter exhales. He’s unsure of how to respond.

“I am trying to say sorry, Quill,” Thor says. “I rubbed all of my insecurities and feelings of uselessness off on you. You have no reason to feel useless here. You are doing what you said you would. You’re getting your lady back.” Thor smiles, a stark contrast to the tears streaming down his face.

“Thank you,” Peter says. He pauses for a second. “You did too.”

Thor squints in confusion, wiping the tears off of his face. “Did what?”

“You did what you said you would. You killed Thanos.” Peter looks over at Thor, locking eyes with him, kinder than the first time he’s done so. He still remembers standing up tall in front of the man, hoping that Gamora wouldn't realize how utterly pathetic he is in comparison. “The same one that killed your brother. Same Thanos that killed Gamora,” Peter says. He resists the urge to squeeze his injured hand in on itself. “I am sorry too. I let my insecurities get in the way also. I think maybe we could have been friends if I didn't.”

Thor claps him on the shoulder, and he sinks a little under the pressure. “We are friends, Quill. And I am glad for it.”

Peter smiles. “So am I.”

Thor releases his hold on his shoulder and straightens up in his own seat. “And I am glad to have had this talk with you, but I think there are some people on this ship that need you to talk to them more than me,” Thor says.

Peter knows that Thor is right. He has a lot of things that he needs to make right. “They won't be happy that I’m up,” Peter says. It’s a bad excuse, but it’s easier than explaining how afraid he is to face them after all he’s done.

“They deserve to hear from you,” Thor says. _ They deserve an apology, _ goes without saying. He knows that. He knows that he has hurt them by continuously hurting himself.

“Yeah,” Peter agrees. “They do.”

He doesn't get up right away, and Thor doesn't pressure him to.

He watches the stars through the window and remembers what it’s like to hold his breath among them.

* * *

Peter approaches him cautiously, stopping only to lean against one of the Quadrant’s cool and rigid walls. He feigns casualness but knows that the stiffness of his stance screams both anxiety and uncertainty.

“Can we talk?” Peter asks Rocket from where he sits at one of the Quadrant’s many tables. The raccoon fidgets with a device in his hands, picking up speed when Peter’s voice breaks the silence. He can't tell what he’s building, but he knows that Rocket’s building it with pieces of the Quadrant itself.

“Oh so he’s _ asking _ to speak now,” Rocket says. It takes a second for Peter to notice Groot’s presence too. The kid is seated to Rocket’s left, slumped over his game and shielded by the mounds of scrap metal littering the table. “Don’t think Quill’s ever listened when we told him _ not _ to talk, huh Groot?”

Rocket looks up at him. “Don’t think he listens ‘n general.”

“Rocket—”

“Save it,” Rocket growls. The change in him is great since the last time Peter’s seen him, but it makes sense considering he’s had the past hour and a half to sit around and think about all that Peter’s put them through within the past 24 hours alone.

With a sigh and a slight push off the wall to center himself above his feet, he moves to take a seat at the large table. “Rocket,” he says again.

Rocket’s hands idle around the strip of metal in his grasp. He looks up, apparently deciding to entertain the conversation. The stiffness of his posture doesn’t let up.

“I’m sorry,” Peter says after a moment of silence. The words come out soft and quiet, too timid for the gravity of what he’s apologizing for. He has broken so many of his promises, and it's only hurt everyone that he loves. “I’m sorry for everything that I’ve put you through. I was angry at myself and with the Universe, and I never took the time to realize that I was hurting everyone else along the way.”

Rocket sighs, still clutching the same piece of the Quadrant. Groot has gone quiet beside him, the mashing of buttons and the sound of blasts now absent from the ship. 

Peter can’t handle any more silence. He’s been surrounded by silence for almost two months and he won’t last another second. “Please, man, just say something.”

Rocket looks down. He lets his eyes wander anywhere that isn’t Peter’s face. It isn’t until he starts working on the object in his hands that he begins to speak.

“I knew from the start that whatever ‘_ mission’ _ you and Nebs were going on wouldn’t be any good for you,” Rocket says. He doesn't look up, only continuing to fiddle with whatever device he’s building. “You’ve been guilty for a while. You’ve been thinkin’ that everything wrong in the Universe — _ hell, _ the whole d’ast multiverse — is your fault. I wanted it to work, but I knew that unless you forgave yourself for everything that you’ve been blaming yourself for…”

Rocket sighs again. It’s become a familiar sound. “...well, then it’d all be for nothing.”

“Not nothing,” Peter says. “In one way or another this mission led me to Gamora.”

Rocket scoffs. “And what does that have to do with anything?”

“What—”

“You know that I would do just about anything to have Gammie back with us. If this works, I’ll never ask for anything again,” Rocket says, interrupting him before he can misinterpret his point. “But can you honestly tell me that Gamora coming back is going to solve everything?”

Now Peter really doesn’t understand. What couldn’t Gamora fix? What star wouldn’t beam in her presence? “Of course it will. I know that it will.”

Rocket laughs. It’s real. Even he can’t deny that. “What about all that guilt you feel? All of the blame you’ve placed on yourself won't disappear when she’s back,” Rocket says. “Believe me or don't, but I know what I’m talking about.”

“So? I can handle a little guilt as long as she’s back in our lives.” Peter holds his breath, unwittingly, only noticing when his chest tightens and lungs shrink. “Been doing it my whole life, anyway.”

“Yeah, we all have. We’ve all got our shitty pasts ‘cause we’re losers or whatever the flark you wanna call us. But we also had time to help us get through our shit. You wanna rush things and pretend like it’s gonna be fine as long as you’ve got Gammie. You keep holdin’ yourself accountable for shit that ain't your fault, and soon you’re gonna realize it’s not that easy of a fix.”

The raccoon shrugs, finally dropping his mess of a creation onto the metal table. “You can't save her without saving yourself too, Quill,” he says. “Just remember I said that.”

Peter is left dumbfounded. He sits still, his eyes settling on the device on the counter. He looks up slowly.

“When did you get so good at giving advice? It’s weird,” Peter says. It’s not a bad change, but it’s definitely something that he has to get used to. He’s still playing catch up as far as he’s concerned. _ Five years _ worth of catching up.

“Got some. Gave some,” Rocket says, peering over at Groot before looking back over at him. “Spent a long time with a bunch of losers and I guess I learned a thing or two.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” Peter nods, trying not to envision the absolute despair that experience must have entailed. “Everyone lost something after the snap. Lots of advice going around, I bet.”

Rocket shakes his head. “I wasn’t talkin’ about them.”

Oh. _ Oh. _

He’s not going to cry, he tells himself, though he knows he has little to no control over that these days.

His fingers curl into a fist, hovering just above his skin. He can’t bring himself to close it entirely, nor can he bring himself to bite down on the shredded remains of his inner cheek. _ Saving yourself… _What does that mean anyway?

Peter takes in a huge breath, allowing his chest to rise and fall like a melody he’s heard a couple times before. “Well, you’re not supposed to be giving me advice. I’m supposed to be apologizing.”

Rocket drops his gaze, scanning the table for his makeshift object once more. “Don’t need it. I ain't mad.”

“You definitely were like two minutes ago.”

“You’re gonna tell me how I feel, Quill?” he responds, completely deadpan.

“You thought I was dead,” Peter bursts out. “And that’s… after everything, I—”

He’s spiraling. He takes another deep breath. 

“I owe you an apology for that,” Peter says. “Take it, accept it, _ whatever, _but I owe you that at the very least.”

“Just don't do it again,” says Rocket, his voice only a whisper. “I don’t know if Nebula would let you live if you did.” He cracks a slight smile.

“I won't,” Peter swears. No matter how this goes, he’ll stay true to that promise. “And you’ll forgive me?”

_ “Jesus. _ Do I gotta say it, too?” Rocket sighs, clearly realizing that he won’t let up if he doesn’t. “Yes. Jeez, _ yes _ — I forgive you. Now will you stop blaming yourself for god damn near everything?”

“Only if you promise to stop worrying so much.” Peter laughs. It feels real.

“I don’t worry,” Rocket says. “You’ve got me confused with yourself.”

It feels wrong joking with him about this, but it's probably the least depressing conversation Peter’s had in months. He can’t resist crawling back to the banter they once shared. “Oh, I _ know _ I do. But you’re worse… _ way _ worse.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t be if you didn’t almost get yourself killed on a daily basis,” Rocket says as he rolls his eyes.

“That’s pretty much been the norm for me since we met,” he says, “in case you haven’t noticed.” Peter tosses a small metal bolt in Rocket’s direction. He catches it easily.

“Yeah, well I can't wait for this mess to be over so I can start callin’ you a dickwad again, Star-Munch.” Rocket throws it back. “Without Greenie here I’m starting to become the voice of reason and it’s freakin’ me out.”

“You? The voice of reason?” Peter laughs, placing the bolt back on the table. “Whatever you say Ranger Rick,” he says.

“Watch it,” Rocket warns with that half-annoyed, half-amused tone he knows so well. He picks the device up and surveys it once more, eyeing the thing for any faults.

“What’s that?” Peter finally asks, his curiosity peaked. “Still building bombs and leaving them lying around?”

“Only in your room,” Rocket jokes, his smile falling only moments later. He seems to somber up in seconds. “You said we gotta return the stones, right?” he says. “Stars know none of us are gonna wield all of the stones so…” He lifts the device higher. “This should be able to contain them.”

_ “Oh,” _ Peter says, feeling as if he’s just been drop kicked and had the wind knocked out of him. “Yeah, uh, that’s smart. Good thinking.” He tenses up a little. “You sure it’s gonna work?”

Rocket nods. “I took some inspiration from Stark’s gauntlet,” he says. “I also took some Vibranium from ‘im when he wasn't looking.”

“Terra’s strongest metal,” he explains when Peter’s face screws up in confusion. “Worked well enough to produce a snap, should be enough to contain them once they’ve reformed.”

“After I use the Soul Stone,” Peter reminds him.

Rocket tenses, breaking eye contact immediately and letting out a slight scoff.

“What?” Peter asks, not sure he’s going to appreciate the answer.

“Nothing. It’s just… sketchy,” Rocket hesitates around the word. “Did you ever question _ why _ the stone needs you specifically to wield it? Or the fact that it wouldn’t even tell you straight up how to reform the stones? I mean it only spoke to you once, right? And just to give you some half-assed hint.”

“Of course I questioned that. It’s weird, yeah, but it’s also a sentient rock. I don’t think it’s all that articulate to begin with.”

“What if this is a trick?” Rocket asks.

“You’re worrying again.”

“I’m not _ worrying, _ Quill. It’s a question we should be asking.”

“It’s not a trick,” Peter says. “I’m good at reading people—_er,_ _things,_ whatever! I don’t think it was a trick. I think the stone genuinely wants our help. What else would it need me for?”

Rocket shakes his head. “Trick or not, I don’t like not havin’ full plans before missions anymore. It’s too risky.”

“I have a plan.” That’s a subjective truth. His plans have always ranged somewhere between the twelve and one hundred percent zone. “It’ll be fine.” He glances over at Groot. “It has to be.”

“Then it will,” Rocket says. “‘Cause we’re doing this.”

* * *

Somewhere around the three or four hour mark, Peter runs into Drax and Mantis.

They’re on the stardeck, overlooking the fast moving galaxies and star systems through the giant window. It’s not entirely silent. The two chat, quietly, just barely above a whisper. Drax does teeter the line between whisper and shout though.

Mantis notices him first.

“Peter!” she calls out, running over to engulf him in a hug. He accepts it graciously, wrapping his arms around her in return.

He hasn’t shown Mantis enough appreciation for all her support, both spoken and unspoken. She’s been there for him in more ways than one, and he hasn’t even checked in on her since they’ve been back.

There’s no sense blaming himself. The only thing he can do now is make things right.

“Heyy—Mantis!” Peter says, chuckling slightly as he speaks. She doesn’t hold back, still hugging him with more strength than he knew she had. “What’s up?” he asks, looking up to greet Drax as well.

“Is it true?” she asks, ignoring his inquisition. “Are we really saving Gamora?” She finally pulls back, looking up at him with a kind gaze.

He coughs slightly, clearing his throat. “Yeah. We’re gonna do everything we can,” he says. “It’ll work, I know it will.”

Drax approaches, clapping him on the shoulder. He manages to hide his wince. “It seems that I was wrong to have assumed that your quest for revenge would be in vain. You’re an honorable man, Quill.”

“Wow. I am getting _ very _ different messages on this ship,” Peter says, cocking his brow. He should’ve expected that Drax would see his destructive spiral as a good thing, perhaps even a sign of strength. After all, from Drax’s point of view, he _ did _ just kill another one of Thanos’ compatriots in cold blood. “I actually think you might’ve been right to have said all that before I left, Drax. It was very good advice.” _ Surprisingly. _

“While we’re on the topic,” Peter starts, “I want to apologize. For leaving. For making you guys worry. All of it.”

“It is okay!” Mantis says. “I am very glad that you’re back and that you have found a way to bring Gamora home too!” She smiles. It’s natural, so unlike the first time he ever saw her attempt one.

“I have no qualms regarding your absence,” says Drax. “Though I am glad that you are back.”

Peter shakes his head. Damn his team for being so d’ast forgiving. He doesn’t deserve them

“No, it’s not okay. But thanks guys,” Peter says. “I’m sorry,” he repeats again, unable to keep the phrase from being forced out—all of the guilt inside of him demanding it so.

Mantis closes the space between them again. “We accept your apology,” she says. “We just want you to be happy.” She grabs his hands mercifully.

Until she pulls away, shock written on her face.

“What?” Peter asks. When she doesn’t respond immediately, he questions her again. “What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing,” she says, and it sounds honest enough. She looks up at him quizzingly. “You just feel… different.”

Peter laughs. “Different how? We’re all a little different, I guess.” He laughs again, trying to mask the discomfort he feels. Because what the flark was that?

She nods slowly, curving her lips in a slight approximation of a smile. It only makes him more uncomfortable. She doesn’t move to grab his hands again to confirm whatever it is that she sensed, as he expected she would have. From the looks of it, she’s _ shaking, _ her hands jittering at her sides.

Fear. That was definitely fear.

“We are all anxious,” she says. It sounds like she’s trying to convince herself. “It was truly nothing.”

_ Nothing, _ Peter thinks, _ yeah right. _ It’s such a non-big deal that she can’t even look him in the eye. He decides not to push it. She’s right after all. They’re all way too anxious to be interpreting each other’s emotions at this magnitude.

“If you’re sure,” Peter says slowly. He takes a few seconds to look her over, unsure of what he’s searching for. She continues looking down. “Hey,” he says softly. “It’s gonna be okay.”

She looks up again, her eyes still kind and soft. It’s a good sign. She’s not afraid of _ him. _ “I hope so,” she says.

He nods. “It will be,” he says again. He hesitates for a moment, thinking. “You guys good here? I needa look for Nebs.”

Peter sighs.

“You seen her around?” he asks, knowing that finding Nebula when she doesn’t want to be found has been one of the Guardians’ greatest struggles.

“Yes,” Mantis says, answering his first question. “We are good here!”

Drax hums in agreement. “I believe that I last saw Nebula heading to her quarters.”

“Okay then,” he says. “Thanks guys.” He turns to leave, ignoring the shooting pain that has reappeared in his side now that his pain meds are starting to wear off. They’re both quiet behind him as he turns the corner.

When he’s out of sight, he forces down the urge to cringe at the latter part of that conversation. 

Peter has seen Mantis afraid before, and that was no different than all the other times.

He hasn’t, however, seen her afraid after touching any of them.

He decides to drop it. There’s no room in his brain for questioning it any further. Mantis has never lied to him before. If she says it is nothing, then it must truly be nothing.

He busies himself instead with the task of finding Nebula. She’s one of the last apologies he’s got, and perhaps the most important. The most _ vital _ actually.

Peter heads toward Gamora and his quarters on the Quadrant. They’re in the same hallway as Nebula’s, conveniently doors away. He approaches her door, pausing once he’s inches from it.

His good hand hovers over the metal. He forms a fist slowly, knocking down on the door before he can decide against it.

The door opens swifter than he expected it to, and he barely gets a chance to compose himself from that shock before she begins speaking.

“Have we arrived?” she asks, her voice clipped.

Peter swallows, regaining his voice quickly. “No,” he says. “But I have to talk to you.”

“Don’t bother me until we have landed,” Nebula says, slamming the door in his face.

Well, alright then.

He can’t bring himself to be mad. She has every right, as far as he’s concerned. He is the one who abandoned her on their mission. He’s the one who was so desperate to be eased of his suffering that he was willing to bring her down to Hell with him. He’s the one that promised again and again to save her from the guilt of him dying on her watch just to tease death time and time again.

He’s the one _ who… _

_ She went through all that pain and suffering, just for him to get a taste of some of it and run away right after. _

So no. He doesn’t blame her.

He sighs, deciding to spend the remaining time in his quarters. At the very least he can try to get some sleep. Doubtful, but it’s at least worth another shot.

He walks closer to their room, pausing outside when he hears a slight hum from outside the door. Nostalgia pangs in his stomach upon hearing it, and he pauses in his tracks.

_ ‘I’m not in love. So don’t forget it.’ _

Peter opens the door, stepping into the room with caution. As predicted, Groot sits at the edge of their bed, holding his Zune close to his chest. He catches sight of Peter moments too late, pausing the music as soon as he’s able.

“Hey bud,” Peter says carefully. His eyes flicker down to the Zune. “That’s a good one.” 

It’s not a lie. _ I’m Not in Love by 10cc, _ he might’ve said in the past to anyone who would listen, desperate to reinforce the already understood notion that his music is an everlasting part of himself. 

He hasn’t listened to this particular song, in full, for 30 years. 

It’s a good song. It hurts like a bitch every time he’s been forced to hear the opening tracks before quickly skipping it, but it’s good nonetheless.

“I am Groot.” _ Sorry. I’ll turn it off. I know Rocket said you don’t like music anymore. _

He nearly falls to the floor and dies at that. “Me?! Not like music?” Peter exclaims, falsifying disbelief for comedic effect though the disbelief inside him far outweighs what he’s displaying. “That doesn't even sound right. You sure Rocket said that? Do we need to get him a new translator unit?”

Groot shakes his head. “I am Groot,” he says. _ He said that you are fucked up in the head. That’s why you don't listen anymore. _

“Woah,” Peter says. He debates scolding the kid for his language but decides against it. He’s been through a lot, and they’re all horrible influences. He walks over to the bed, taking a seat at the edge of it. “I’m fine. I’ve just been… busy.”

That is a lie. He’s sure Groot can see right through it too. Never once in his entire life has he been too busy for music, nor has he ever claimed to be.

“I am _ Groot,” _ he says, rolling his eyes. _ Sure. Busy. _

“Really,” he says. “Go ahead. Play it.” 

Groot hits play, sighing as he does it. Peter knows it’s only because he’s been caught in the act of actually enjoying and seeking out his music.

_ “It’s just a silly phase I’m going through…” _

He sucks in a breath, trying to place himself back in the present. He’s torturing himself, he knows that.

“I am Groot.” _ Busy? _

Peter sighs. “Okay so not… _ busy,” _ he says. “That’s a bad word for it.”

Groot nods, scoffing slightly. “I am Groot.” _ Clearly. _

“I’ve been sad,” he allows. “I’ve been really sad since Gamora… _ left. _But I’m happier now, knowing that she’ll be back. Now that I know that there’s hope.”

“I am Groot,” he says. _ I’m not a kid anymore. You can say died. _

Peter gulps, trying to keep his emotions inside rather than bubbling out like boiling water. This isn't about him or his emotions right now. This isn't about his triggers or fears or vulnerabilities. That isn’t even self-deprecation talking. It’s clear that Groot has been grieving this whole time too, only alone and with the mindset that he cannot show it.

“Sure,” Peter says slowly, enunciating each of his syllables carefully. “You can say that too. She did die,” he acknowledges, speaking as kindly as he can. He takes in a breath. “And you were sad too, huh?”

Groot shrugs. “I am Groot.” _ Yeah. _

A thought becomes clear to him, one so saddening that he can hardly speak on it. “Did you come in here to listen to music because you are sad?” Peter pauses, realizing something else. “Or scared?” he asks.

Groot’s eyes begin to water. “I am Groot.” _ Both. _

And just like that, the floodgates open.

The tree begins to wail, turning to bury his face in Peter’s chest. He cries harder than Peter’s ever seen him cry. 

Peter places his hands against Groot’s back and the back of his head, whispering reassurances wherever he can fit them. “It’s okay. Let it out,” he says, his heart clenching with every sob.

The crying doesn’t let up, only increasing in both intensity and volume. Peter makes sure his voice can be heard above the chaos, holding him as tight as he’s able.

With the hand holding Groot’s head, he reaches down to turn up the music.

_ “I keep a picture upon the wall…” _

An indistinguishable amount of time passes, enough so that the Zune has moved on to the next track. 

Groot sniffles a few times, hiccuping on his remaining sobs. “I am… Groot.” _ I don’t like crying. _

Peter nods. “No one does. But sometimes you can't just keep holding down the feelings that are in there. It’s good to let it out sometimes.”

Groot sniffles some more, pulling away and avoiding eye contact. “I am Groot?” he asks sarcastically. _ What. Like you? _

“Okay, I deserved that,” he says. “I know this because, for a long time, I didn't let out the feelings I had inside. I still do it sometimes without even realizing it.”

“I am Groot?” _ Is that why you didn't want to listen to music? You didn't want to let out the feelings? _

“I think,” Peter says, “I was afraid that I couldn't handle all of the memories the music would bring me. I knew that listening would make me sad, and I didn't want to feel like that.” He sighs. “I didn't want to feel anything.”

Groot nods sadly. “I am Groot.” _ I don't want to feel like this either. _

“And hopefully we won't have to for much longer,” he says. “But sometimes we don't have a choice. And it’s not our fault for feeling sad even when everything is supposed to be okay.”

He remembers what Rocket said. _ Will all this pain really go away when she’s back? _

“I am Groot?” _ Will you listen with me? Even if it makes us sad? _

“Always.”

* * *

  
  


The Garden is nothing like what he expected.

He thought that maybe it’d be a barren landscape, its soil covered with the skulls and bones of those who ever stood opposed to the Mad Titan. Peter imagined a sea of blood, a constant and heinous soundtrack of everyone he has ever loved, screaming for their life. Maybe even a fifty foot statue of Thanos himself, his foot placed atop the head of Peter’s fallen body, eyes glazed over and devoid of hope.

Not a fucking field of wheat.

The wind blows through the atmosphere, making the hair atop his head sway with the whispers of the planet. He squeezes his fist over and over, too anxious and too preoccupied to notice the pain that comes with every clench.

The Godslayer is tucked in its sheath, sins washed and blood cleared. His blasters remain on the ship, still too heavy for him to bear.

“In there,” Thor says, pointing at an impressively large hut in the middle of the field. “That’s where we found him.”

Peter’s breath hitches. He can’t help imagining the bloody and dismembered remains of the Titan only yards away. He doesn’t want to imagine it. He sure as _ hell _ doesn’t want to see it either, lest he be plagued with even more inescapable nightmares. “He’s not-- He’s not still... in there, right?” he asks, immediately regretting it the moment he sees Nebula’s face.

“Of course not,” Nebula snaps. She looks offended in a way that he’s never seen from her before. “We buried him on this planet.”

If it was up to Peter, he would’ve lit Thanos’ corpse up in the hottest and biggest fire that could ever burn. He knows Gamora and Nebula enough to know that their feelings regarding Thanos are confusing at best. He’d never judge either one of them for it, despite his misunderstandings and concern. Nothing is black and white, he supposes, especially not where childhood trauma is concerned.

Though he’s gotta say, he’s glad that he is not going to stumble upon Thanos’ five-year-old rotting carcass.

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Rocket says. “There’s no way he destroyed the stones in there.” He grips a blaster close to his body, eyes shifting and scouting every inch of their surroundings. Over to his left, Drax does the same with his daggers in tow.

“So then where?” Mantis asks, searching the terrain as well. It’s clear that she doesn’t find anything when she turns to look expectantly at Peter.

He closes his eyes and tries to sense an instinct he’s ought to have. _ Ask for me, _ he remembers, and so he does. He asks for Gamora or the stone or any otherworldly being that takes pity on his soul. He just needs a sign, a hint, _ something. _

He gets nothing.

“I- I don’t know,” Peter admits, opening his eyes and ghosting his hand around the Godslayer’s hilt. There’s no threat, but the anxiety mounting inside his chest makes him feel like he should be on his guard. “I thought for sure that I would know once we were here, but—”

And just like that, a blast of vibrant orange consumes his vision. The skies above him become tinted with the color, so deep and vibrant that he becomes lost in it. The rest of his surroundings remain the same, but he’s instantly filled with more knowledge than he thought possible.

Is this how Gamora felt in the Soul World? He remembers, ‘I can see more than what’s visible here” and “I don't know how I know that, but… I do,” and knows that he feels the same way now. It’s like he has all the knowledge of the Soul Stone on his back. It’s like the stone is communicating to him, so purposefully that words don't need to be spoken. The knowledge comes to him swiftly, more so a feeling than a message.

_ “This way,” _ Peter says suddenly. He doesn’t wait for them to follow. He starts moving with purpose, knowing deep within his soul where the stones must be reformed. His body tingles with the sensation of unchecked power, and he knows that the Power Stone is well within his reach. They’re both calling out for him.

He can sense Rocket bristling behind him. _ Connected, _ Peter thinks. “What the flark?” he says, moving beside Peter and looking up at his eyes. He knows without a doubt that they are the same shade as the sky above him. “Is it talking to _ you _now? What’s it saying?”

_ “I can feel It,” _ Peter says, though he can feel _ more _ than just the stones. He can feel hope in his veins, coursing up and down his arms like liquid fire that leaves his fingertips tingling. He feels positively giddy in his step. 

The rest of the Guardians, including Thor, are quiet. To Peter’s right, Groot moves as if he’s walking on eggshells, unsure really of the magnitude of what is about to happen. 

Peter can feel Drax and Rocket’s apprehension as if it is his own. For all he knows, it is.

He hasn’t felt this connected to them since Xandar.

_ “They’re here,” _ he says, his voice sounding far and muddy. It’s like he’s on another plane, though his body is certainly on the planet's surface. _ “Do it Thor.” _He points at an overgrown patch of grass. To the naked eye, there is nothing particularly special about it. He knows better.

“Are you sure, Quill?” Thor looks over at the rest of them. “Here?”

_ “Yes,” _ he says. He can make out a low drone, a slight whispering that echoes all around him. He can’t discern any specific words, but the voices are urging him to do something. _ “Do it.” _

Stormbreaker hangs low in his grip, grazing the grass as the tips come to meet the durable metal. He lifts it about half an inch before he lowers it once more, this time looking toward Rocket for approval.

Rocket nods once. He’s still unsure, but it’s clear that he wants this too. More than anything. “Do it, Thor.”

That’s about all the reassurance the Asgardian needs. _ Asguardian, _Peter would joke if he was anything close to mentally sound at the moment. He feels ready to burst, like every inch of his existence is alive and screaming.

Thor raises his axe, and suddenly the orange sky is alive with jagged lines of bright light.

Thor’s lightning illuminates the patch of grass in front of them, forcing them to lift their eyes skyward, bringing forth a slow soul-pulse that beats back into a steady and strong rhythm in their eardrums. Peter’s eyes shine bright with the reflection, swirls of white and orange that, if removed, would unearth a deep purple waiting to be revealed. His anticipation has peaked, and it takes nearly everything in him not to dive head first into the light.

When the light clears and all that Peter can see is the afterimage of what was once blinding radiance, he’s greeted by the same empty patch of grass.

“What?” Peter hears himself say and, with the light, the sky returns to blue. The Soul Stone’s veil is dropped.

His eyes return to green, and his mind reverts back to a distressing state of unknowingness.

His heart drops into his stomach.

“What?” Peter repeats. “We… we did everything right! It should’ve worked. They should _ be here.” _

“Quill—” Rocket begins. His voice is sad. It sounds like giving up. It sounds like they _ failed. _

_ Failed. _

He _ failed. _

“It shou_ld have wo_rke_d… th_ey sh_ou_ld be he_re— _ She’s _ waiting,” _ Peter says, his hands tousled up in his hair, seconds away from yanking the strands completely out of his scalp. His voice doesn’t sound like his own. He’s not aware of any other sensation except that he’s hyperventilating.

Peter feels the panic heighten like a cluster of sparks in his abdomen. Tension grows in his face and limbs, his mind replaying the events of the Soul World on a constant loop. _ What went wrong? _ His breathing becomes more and more rapid, more shallow. The thoughts continue to accelerate inside of his head. They just need to slow down so he can breathe, but they won't.

They never stop. _ Oh, God. It’s never going to stop. _

He knows that there are voices present around him, but he can’t seem to reach them. It's like his panic has wrapped them all up in a stronghold, smothering them down until it's the only thing left.

Peter steps backward, his eyes wide and unseeing as he remains transfixed on his failure. _ He’s crazy. He must have imagined this whole thing. _

His limbs begin to tingle as if he’s just been electrocuted. It’s a sensation that exists somewhere between discomfort and power. It’s familiar.

He pulls his hand into view, only then noticing the blue sparks emanating from it.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_ “Listen to me!” _

_ — _The sparks grow larger, swirling upward and growing in intensity. The sheer vibrancy of the energy pulsating out of his hands makes the blue sky appear pathetic in comparison, and—

Peter watches the light escape his body in horror.

—the light is directed toward the atomic remnants of the stones. It completely shrouds the area, lighting the air up with streaks of orange, purple, green, yellow, red, and _ blue— _

_ “You are a god!” _

  
  


He reaches out into the mass of light.

  
  
  


His world goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please leave kudos, reviews, or drop in your favorite quotes! :)


	11. Something In It Had a Power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! i'm so excited for you guys to read the rest of this fic!
> 
> this chapter is a bit shorter than i'm used to, but that is only because i had to divide one super long chapter into two! the good news is that the next chapter will be posted very soon, as it is almost finished!
> 
> please enjoy :)

The sparks don’t stop coming when his eyes open.

He stares idly at his hands from where he sits, his knees and shins completely drenched in the pool of water he knows so well. The Soul Stone sits in the palm of his right hand, his other hand still glowing brightly in rapid succession.

The Soul World is calmer than he imagined it’d be. 

“Peter,” he hears her gasp out. Blood still rushes in his ears, so loud that he can hardly make out the call of his name. He can still feel the pain in his side and knows that the barrier between the two realms is almost nonexistent now. Well, at least for the time being, thanks to him.

He looks up.

She stands relatively far, a distance that could be considered close for some but is entirely too distant for his comfort. Her entire form is a silhouette against a sky of vivid orange, far enough away that it looks as if she could be a part of the horizon itself. 

He sucks in a breath.

She’s back in her adult form, as is he, judging by the size of his hands and legs—the only visible parts of himself from his perspective. She’s as beautiful as ever, perfectly untouched and unharmed, as she was the last time he saw her on Knowhere. 

She takes his breath away.

“Peter,” she cries out again, choking on his name like a sob. She breaks out into a sprint, crashing down to her knees to embrace him from where he kneels. The water around them splashes up and into the air, coming back down like raindrops above their heads. She instantly moves to wrap her arms around his form, pulling him impossibly tight against her. He leans into it as much as he can, sobbing her name too. 

He buries his head into her shoulder, still refusing to hold her in fear that the light will resurface. Instead, he focuses on the touch he can maintain—his forehead against her bare skin, her hand running circles across his back, the tightness of her grip around his waist.

She notices his lack of reciprocal contact and moves to grab him by the wrists. It’s a sign of trust, but his hands still spark, little flickers of blue light that seem to glitch in the orange glow of their surroundings.

Gamora shakes her head quickly, her eyes wide and unseeing. “I promise I didn't know,” she says. Her eyes find his, and she moves to cup his face. “You’re alright,” she tries reassuring him, remembering how he’s reacted to nightmares of these circumstances in the past. Ego’s light returning to him has been a fear that’s refused to leave him, even after all these years.

He nods. He doesn't believe it though, not really. “You’re okay too,” he says, knowing that she needs reassurance just as much as he does right now. She likely needs even more. “I’m here now,” he promises. _ Focus on the issue at hand, _ Peter thinks, _ getting the fuck out of here. _

He sighs when Gamora’s hands move to wrap around his wrists again. The contact grounds him.

“Where’s Natasha?” he asks, looking into her eyes while attempting to level his breathing.

Which is easier said than done, by the way. Especially when his brain decides to plant terrifying thoughts into his head. _ If the light is back, then your immortality must be too, _ his thoughts say menacingly. _ You’ve been the survivor for two months—imagine eternity, _ they continue.

He shakes those thoughts away as quick as he’s able. His breathing is heavy as he forces himself to keep it together.

Gamora looks over her shoulder, not daring to break physical contact with him. He follows her gaze, settling upon a standing figure that appears to be yards away.

The figure steps closer, seeming to move several feet per step. It’s as if there is no solid form of measurement here. No logic.

“That’s me,” the woman says quietly. She stands in a defensive stance, her hands itching for a weapon. “Who are you?”

Peter’s mind short circuits as he cycles through all of his possible monikers. “We’re Nebula and Rocket’s friends,” he settles on, knowing that familiarity is the best route to take.

Natasha relaxes a little. “The Guardians?” she asks, apparently not looking for confirmation as she begins to speak again. “You are Gamora.” Natasha nods over at her. “Thanos’ daughter.”

Peter’s about to correct her when Gamora squeezes him lightly around the wrists. “What is the last thing you remember?” she asks Natasha, redirecting the conversation.

The woman shakes her head, glaring off at a faraway point in the horizon. “Falling off a cliff,” she says, expressionless. A slight flicker of recognition flashes across her face. “Then this place, for a moment, and _ you._” Natasha looks around. “Where are we?”

“The Soul World,” Gamora says with both patience and sympathy. “But we are leaving. Peter’s found a way to get us out.”

“Peter Quill?” She looks at him, assessing. “You were one of the snapped,” she points out. The confusion written on her face is quickly replaced with a shy smile. “So they did it then. We won.”

Peter gulps and nods. That’s one way to put it. _ Won. _ “Yeah,” he says. “Two months ago.”

“Two months ago?” the women say in unison, pure shock written on their faces.

Gamora turns back towards him. “Two months?” she repeats. Her eyes are sad and guilty. Her grip tightens around him.

“Give or take a week… or two,” he says. He’s definitely not the most reliable source for this kind of information. Time to him has been but a giant loop, a series of peaks and dips and highs and lows and no in between at all. As much as he’s prayed that time would stop, it never once yielded for him.

It feels unreal, not unlike the realization that the moment they’re sharing now is living within one giant boom that will likely be a mere second for the Guardians outside this realm.

“Oh, _ Peter,_” Gamora sighs. She looks like she might cry.

He has to look away. Later, he’ll wipe away the tears of hers that are likely to fall, but right now he’s stuck in this moment—staring at a glowing orange rock that sits in the palm of his right hand. “We have to go,” he says.

Gamora looks down at the stone with him, silently agreeing to let the conversation drop for now. They have plenty of time later to attempt to pick up whatever pieces of themselves are left. Right now, they’re not in the clear. “How?” she asks.

Peter closes his eyes, sensing the energy around the stone. He can feel it coursing in and out of his hand. He can even feel its power moving throughout his body if he focuses on it.

“Peter?” she questions, sounding concerned.

“I think you have to take my hand,” Peter says, sighing deeply as he looks at Gamora. His breath stutters upon release, fear snaking up his chest and wrapping around his lungs. He can only imagine how he must look to her, his eyes wide and sunken in at the same time, the adrenaline in his body accelerating and fizzling out simultaneously.

She looks down at his left palm. It’s not emitting any more of Ego’s light, thank the gods, but Peter can't be sure how long that will last. He can't be sure that the light won't take her along with the last of his sanity.

She grabs on without hesitation, always willing to put him first despite the potential harm it may bring her.

“You won’t hurt me,” she whispers, her voice full of trust and support. She rubs her thumb along the backside of his hand, tracing the blue and green veins that peer out from behind his pale skin.

He nods, and his eyes fill to the brim with hot tears. He squeezes her hand back.

Gamora rises to her feet, gently pulling him up with her. She makes sure that he’s steady on his feet before she cups his face with absolute fervor, pulling his lips against hers.

It’s everything he thought it would be. Their lips meet, rough and urgently, like they’d be sent back two months if they were to separate—as if their very survival depends on it. He trusts himself enough to hold her, pulling her closer as his hands come up to grip her waist. Her touch is the only thing holding him together, the only thing keeping his body from drifting away in the wind. And her lips, soft and sweet, part to let his in—two bodies tangled together in the orange skylight. His lips could not bear to be anywhere other than flush against hers. He would rather walk into hell itself than lose this again: her warm embrace, her slight smile against his lips, her enticing stare. Every touch feels like home, and with every second his breath is ripped away.

Eventually, his traitorous lungs give him one last warning, and he begrudgingly breaks the kiss for a breath.

Gamora laughs, wet and full of mirth. Her lips are plump, as are his, and he’s left with an intoxicating sensation of overwhelming, earth-shattering love as he leans his forehead against hers.

She breaks their embrace with the same reluctance he feels and extends her other arm out to Natasha, a silent request that is instantly accepted by the Terran woman. She grabs Gamora’s hand, coming to stand right beside them.

Mercifully, Natasha makes no comment regarding the moment they just shared. There’s a slight smile on her face, undoubtedly shrouding a deeper sense of forlorn, as she looks at them.

“Are you ready?” Peter asks, his voice trembling.

Natasha nods once. “Yes.”

Gamora nods too, rubbing her thumb along the backside of his hand. “Yes,” she says. “I’m ready.”

Peter closes his fist around the stone.

* * *

The first thing Peter registers is the sensation of two palms against his face.

“Get that stone out of his hand,” he hears a voice say beneath the pounding in his head.

He knows that voice.

He knows it like he knows his music. Knows it like he knows the way in which they danced to countless songs and hundreds of melodies. He knows it like the melody of his mother’s voice, singing him to sleep as a child. He knows that soft yet authoritative tone she’s using like he knows the way that she fights in battle, graceful and without pageantry.

Parts of him that he thought were long dead come alive at the sound of her voice.

He cracks his eyes open slowly, peering up at the figure above him. “G’mora?” he mutters under his breath, feeling too tired and distant to sound comprehensible.

She registers his voice a moment later, whipping her head back to face his.

“Peter,” she says, smiling above him as she leans over his body. Her brown and magenta locks cascade around him, blocking his peripheral vision. He doesn't mind. She’s the only person he wants to see right now.

He hears the whooshing noise of a metal container opening and closing, and suddenly his hand feels a little bit lighter. The uncomfortable sensation of the stone’s energy pulsing through him is lifted. He can even see a little bit clearer.

“That’s better,” he groans out, sighing in relief. It’s like a weight has been lifted from his chest, though his thoughts are still weighing down the rest of him. He moves to sit up, and Gamora quickly braces him as he does so.

By the time he is sitting upright and managing not to sway on the spot, he catches sight of the other Guardians. They stand in the same spot as before, unable to conceal the pure shock written on each of their faces. 

“Gamora,” Nebula breathes out, making no moves to approach her sister. Her mechanical hand twitches once, the fingers extending outwards before curling back into a loose fist. She stands there, breathless, as if she’s afraid what she’s seeing isn't real.

Peter knows the feeling.

It’s Mantis who runs up first. His sister’s lifetime experience dealing with Ego’s deception and trickery allows her to quickly recognize a good thing when she sees it. “Gamora!” she yells, practically crashing into her body as she wraps her arms around her. Peter lets out a watery chuckle at the sight of it.

Groot follows quickly behind, grabbing not only Gamora but Peter too, squeezing him in with his lengthy vines. Drax comes in soon after, seemingly out of nowhere, making their impromptu group hug even tighter than before. He lets out a relieved sigh and chuckle as he hugs them, easing some of the tension that Peter hadn't even recognized until then.

Gamora looks up from the mass of bodies wrapped around her, locking eyes with Nebula and Rocket. “Come here,” she whispers, as lovingly as ever.

“Quill just—he…” Rocket looks over at Peter, his mouth agape. “What the _ fuck _ was that?!”

Peter sighs, letting the embrace of his teammates and Gamora—_ oh my God, Gamora— _ comfort him. “I don't-- I don’t know,” he breathes out, ignoring the way his voice breaks. _ Just drop it, _ he wants to say, but another part of himself knows that this is his life now.

He lets his head fall on Gamora’s shoulder.

“We’ll figure it out later,” Gamora says, granting him a mercy he’s unimaginably grateful for. Her tone is kind, yet uncompromising. “Now come here already,” she says.

Rocket comes quickly, not even hesitating to join the group hug. Peter should be surprised; he’s not. “It’s been a while, Gam,” Rocket mumbles. He sounds like he’s moments away from a sob himself. If Peter could see him from where his head rests against Gamora, he’s sure he’d see wetness clinging to the fur beneath his eyes.

Before Gamora can ask, Nebula steps forward. “Five years, sister,” she says, crouching down and grabbing Gamora by the hands. “I’ve missed you.”

Something in Gamora shifts, likely due to the _ five years _ revelation that still trips Peter up every damn day. She pulls Nebula into an embrace, squeezing Rocket closer to herself as well. “I’m _ so _ sorry,” she sobs out.

Nebula shakes her head rapidly, not daring to pull away from the hug. “Do _ not _ apologize, sister. You saved my life.”

Gamora takes in a deep breath. She’s visibly trying to calm herself down, desperate to contain the complete anguish he knows exists within all of them. “I love you guys,” she says to everyone, sighing softly.

“I love you,” Peter repeats, turning to kiss the side of her neck. She moves to lean her head onto his.

Nebula squeezes tighter. “I love you, sister.”

Mantis is quick to follow. “I love you, Gamora! We missed you,” she says, her antenna shining merrily.

Drax squeezes them all as tight as possible. It’s so tight that Peter swears he sees black for a second. “As do I,” he says. “I have love for all of you. My family.”

Groot’s just about finished with his fiftieth “I am Groot” when Rocket looks up at Gamora.

Rocket shakes his head. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, smiling as widely as ever. “Love you too.”

Gamora releases a watery chuckle that escapes past her tear-plumped lips. She reaches down, ruffling the top of Rocket’s head. He barely protests aside from fixing the tussled fur after she removes her hand.

Thor’s voice cuts into the moment. 

“Sorry everyone,” he says, “but we have to get these to a safe place.”

Peter looks up. Thor stands off to his right, holding onto a container of the infinity stones in one hand. Natasha curls into his other side, her head rested on his shoulder. The assassin looks shaken up, but he’s glad that she can take solace in Thor’s friendship.

He looks away from the stones. Even looking at them is enough to blossom a killer headache behind his eyes.

Rocket grimaces too, likely sharing the same ailment. “And where’s that?” he asks. “Our best bet is to place those things as far apart as possible, and do you know how long it’d take us to do that?”

Gamora quickly agrees. “The Universe will never be safe if they’re all in one place,” she says.

“How far apart do they need to be for it to be safe?” Natasha asks, looking down at them. Their group hug has slowly morphed into a sitting circle, all the Guardians huddled together on the floor. “None of us could ever know that. We can't see into the future.”

“Right,” Peter says. It’s painstakingly clear to him now and, as much as he hates it, he knows what they have to do. _ “We _ can’t.”

They all turn towards him.

Peter sighs. “We have to go to Earth.”

Gamora perks up at that. She turns towards him, her expression a mix between concern and uncertainty. There is confusion in her gaze too, but it’s clear that she’s willing to trust his judgment. He has _ no idea _ why.

“Doctor Weird-- Strange--_ whatever-his-name-is _ saw over fourteen million possible futures on Titan. If this is the one where we won then he has to know where the stones have to go, right?” Peter says. He might be crazy; that definitely wouldn't be news to any of them. Maybe it would be to Gamora, though he would be willing to bet that she is beginning to catch on to that.

Natasha speaks up. “He _ was _ the keeper of the Time Stone,” she admits, following his point. “At the very least he can take that stone from us.”

“Or all of ‘em,” Rocket says. “We could make the whole thing his problem. Isn’t he supposed to be the _ protector of reality _or somethin’? Or was that just a bunch of shit?”

Gamora speaks directly to Peter this time. “Where can we find him?” Her tone is soft, sympathetic even. That’s right, Peter realizes, she probably doesn't know that he’s been to Earth again. That doesn't make it necessarily any easier, but it’s not the long-awaited arrival that she must think it is.

It might as well be, though. He was too hopped up on adrenaline, grief, and pure shock to tune into any of his surroundings on a level that means something.

He still is.

“He will find us,” Thor answers for him. “It is his duty to protect Midgard from individuals and beings from other realms. He’ll notice our arrival and, when he does, he’ll bring us to him.”

Natasha agrees. “We should land in New York. The compound is our safest option, more discreet. I’m sure Earth isn't too eager to see UFOs in the sky this soon after everything that’s happened,” she says. “No offense.”

Peter quirks his brow. “UFO? Like a flying saucer?” he asks, shaking his head. When did he become the alien in the movies he watched as a kid?

She quirks her brow back. “Unidentified flying object,” she clarifies. “We’ll be flying in United States airspace.”

“About that,” Rocket says, drawing out the words. “There’s no more compound. It’s gone.” He fidgets with one of his blasters before holstering it. The conversation topic must be a sore spot.

“It’s where the final battle took place,” Thor says. “In the ruins.”

Natasha looks shocked beyond words. Thor definitely needs to do a lot of explaining, preferably when they’re in a safe and controlled place for her to grieve. Peter knows firsthand how awful it is to confront the death of those that you love in the middle of unbridled chaos.

“There’s no need for the ship anyway,” Thor continues. He lifts his axe. “I will summon the Bifrost and we’ll be in and out in no time.”

No time sounds good, Peter thinks.

“Alright then,” Rocket says. He coughs and straightens up and away from their jumbled mess of what was once a group hug. He looks over at Thor, whose axe remains raised up and in a ready position. _ “Oh, _what? You mean now?”

“That is what I said,” Thor states.

Nebula rolls her eyes. She stands up as well, moving to grab the infinity stones from Thor’s grasp. She holds the container close to her form. “Not really,” she says with a snip. “There is no point dragging this out, though. So I agree. We should go to Terra now.”

Gamora hasn't broken her gaze with him once during this entire conversation. “Is that okay?” She clutches one of his hands again, their bodies still pressed together in a jumbled mess.

Peter doesn't answer right away.

He’s feeling oddly disconnected. _ Far, _ like he is in his body but not quite. He is here with Gamora, something he never thought he’d be able to say again. His team is here too, and he’s _ with them _—he is—but he also isn't.

He turns his head away for a moment, glaring directly at the bright stones encapsulated in Nebula’s firm grasp. They burn his retinas, but he can’t seem to look away, filling his gaze with unbridled vibrance. Nebula levels a hard stare at him, one he doesn't quite notice, and looks at someone behind him with a questioning gaze.

Gamora, probably. 

Oh my God. Gamora’s alive. 

She’s _ alive. _ How? He’s dreaming. He’s got to be dreaming. 

But he’s not. He’s not dreaming and she’s actually here. _ With him. _In Real Life.

“Peter.”

He almost jolts at the sound of her voice. It’s almost like he is talking to a ghost, the way that his brain refuses to accept that she is really alive and whole again. His brain would sooner accept that he has lost his goddamn mind than risk the odds of getting his hopes up.

He turns his head back. It feels heavy and disconnected, just like the rest of him. 

“Oh,” he says flatly. “Sorry I—” He squeezes her hand. “Yeah. We should-- uh… we _ should _ go now. Get it over with,” he says, meeting her concerned gaze.

“Okay,” she says cautiously. He knows that she wants to say something else, but she bites her bottom lip instead. She gives him another searching stare before moving to grab his other hand. She pulls them both up to their feet with ease, just as she had done in the Soul World.

Peter stares along blankly as Thor raises his axe towards the blue sky.

* * *

Peter has to blink the black spots from his vision when he finds himself standing upright in the middle of a bustling city. Its populous and fast-paced atmosphere is very much like Xandar’s, though the knowledge that they are currently on Earth places a large rift between the two similar experiences.

Gamora’s hand is wrapped around his, squeezing gently every so often. He isn't sure whether she is trying to remind him of her presence or if she’s trying to remind _ herself _ that he is there beside her.

It’s clear that everyone is in shock. There are feelings bubbling just below the surface, feelings that can't be tended to until they fix this mess and distance themselves from this godforsaken planet. Fortunately, they’ve always been decent at compartmentalizing during missions, especially those in which the outcome will affect way more than just them.

There have been slip-ups though, mainly from him, and he can't shake the sounds of people screaming his name on Titan, begging him to give them more time before he began his onslaught on Thanos.

“Alright Blondie. Summon your weird wizard friend so we can get off this d’ast shithole already,” Rocket says. Peter can't tell whether that is meant to be a jab at him or if Rocket genuinely dislikes Terra that much. He wouldn't be surprised if it were the latter; Rocket and Nebula’s stay was traumatic in itself.

Gamora looks over at Peter, likely unraveling it herself as she attempts to gage his reaction. There is so much she doesn't know yet, so much that has happened over the last five years and two months. “This is Terra?” She looks up and regards the blue sky with a reverence that makes his chest tighten. “Close to your childhood home?” she asks him.

“No,” he says softly, squeezing her hand. He looks up with her, truly taking in the beauty of the clouds above them for the first time. It is one of the most beautiful days he’s seen in a while. “New York is pretty far from Missouri.”

“Sixteen hours if you take one of the sorry excuses for transportation that they got here,” Rocket says. “The Benatar would be much faster. Or Blondie’s magic axe, even.”

Peter sputters. “We-- We are _ not _ going to Missouri,” he emphasizes. “And should I even ask how you know that?”

Rocket barely looks in his direction when he responds. “No,” he says, speaking with that nostalgic and dispiriting tone that he always uses when referring to any of the events that took place in their absence. “You shouldn’t.”

Thor clears his throat, demanding the attention of all of the Guardians. “He really should be here. Any second now,” he says. “When Loki and I arrived on Midgard, we were here all of one minute before the ground opened up beneath his—”

And like clockwork, a portal opens beneath them, dropping them down into an ornate building. Peter grimly recognizes the portal as they fall through, remembering all of the times he had jumped in and out of one on Titan. It feels fitting now, somehow, like the whole shitshow has come full circle.

Peter groans as he pushes himself back up from the floor. Rocket grumbles something off to his left, as does Drax. Mantis sits kneeling on the floor, clumsily regaining her footing. Gamora, Nebula, and Natasha are the quickest to their feet, scanning their surroundings as soon as they’re standing.

“Feet,” Thor finishes, having just now regained his footing.

“Thor,” Dr. Strange nods in acknowledgement as he closes the portal above them. “Natasha Romanoff. Guardians.”

“Strange,” Thor says. “You must know why we are here.”

“I do.” He steps forward. “But let me guess first,” he says, quirking his sarcastic brow. “Because of him?” He points at Peter.

Peter glances upward, his mouth pursed but slightly open and loose. He’s only just been thrown through Strange’s magic portal and he’s already being blamed for something. 

It’s fitting, well-deserved at best, but he’s had a long day and all he wants to do is lay with Gamora in bed and pretend like the Universe is right and whole.

Rocket bristles a little. Judging by the twitching of his hands, Peter can tell that he’s barely managing to keep his gun in his holster. “Watch it, buddy,” he says. Gamora throws one arm down beside her to hold him back.

“What do you know?” Gamora says in as level of a tone as she can maintain. “You say you know why we are here, but what does Peter have to do with this?”

“Quite literally everything,” Strange says, turning to glare at the stones that Nebula still keeps close to her body. “The Infinity Stones create what you experience as the flow of time. Remove one stone and that flow splits. They are the chief weapons against the forces of darkness,” he says as if he’s practiced that speech for a millenia. “They were virtually nonexistent in their atomic state.” He nods over at Peter again. “They needed reformation.”

“You knew this whole time,” Peter says, it suddenly becoming clear as day. “You knew that I still had my Celestial abilities. You knew that I would use them to bring the stones back.” 

White knuckles from clenching his fists too hard, and gritted teeth from attempting to hold back the extent of his rage—he’s sure that he looks like he’s about to snap to anyone watching. “You knew that I could bring back Gamora. This whole time. You knew on Titan. And you didn’t tell me,” he spits like acid, anger dripping from his tongue.

“If you knew, it wouldn’t happen,” he says, so calmly that it only pisses Peter off more. “The one timeline where we win; this is it.”

“And what of Peter’s abilities?” Gamora asks, trying to diffuse the situation by redirecting the conversation. “How did they come back?” she asks.

“Something tells me you gravely misunderstand how his powers function.”

Peter steps up in front of Gamora. He doesn't mean to size Strange up, but he’s never taken kindly to any disrespect directed towards Gamora. He won't let it slide, _ especially _now—after everything.

He curls his injured fist in on itself and tilts his head slightly upward, feigning confidence as he tries to keep the slight shake out of his jaw. “If you know something _ I don’t, _ I think you should say what you know before I--”

“I am the Sorcerer Supreme. I’ve seen countless timelines and explored an infinite number of realities,” Strange deadpans. “So yes, it is safe to say that I know something you don’t.”

Gamora’s hand ghosts over a spot by her side. When her grasp comes up empty, her eyes flicker over towards Peter’s waist, catching sight of her silver sword glinting in sunlight. She curls her fists in its absence and takes a deep breath, attempting to calm herself.

“If you truly know so much,” Gamora says, stepping in front of Peter to urge him back before he does anything rash, “then you must know that I have just returned from the Soul World. As has Natasha. I do not wish to speak for her, but it is _ safe to say _ that _ my _ patience has not returned with me.” She glares at him. “Tell us what you know, take the stones, and we shall gladly be on our way.”

Peter stares at her in awe. He’s always been mesmerized by the way that she handles situations like these, and now is no different. He’s glad to see that that part of herself is still intact—knowing full well that it comes from a place of trying to protect him.

Strange sighs. The sarcasm isn't going to cut it today, he’s probably coming to realize. He’s picked the wrong crowd and the wrong day to push buttons. In some roundabout way, the man infuriatingly reminds Peter of Stark. They are similar in ways that make his head spin. 

“Quill’s abilities are different,” Strange begins. “He is unlike Ego in the sense that he does not carry the light within him. Ego was a planet, his power was within his core. Peter is able to _ channel _ the light. He receives his abilities as a medium, drawing from other sources of power.”

“What?” Peter says, squinting his eyes at the wizard in disbelief. Gamora still stands between them, scrutinizing Strange as well. 

Strange inhales slowly. “Did you ever question why you never knew of your abilities until Ego? Why you were never able to tap into that power before then? Even when you were in situations so dangerous it would have invoked such a response, you didn’t emit so much as a spark.”

“I never knew how,” Peter says. “I didn't know what I was.”

“No. You had no access to that power. When you landed on Ego, you suddenly had a surplus of it. Right below your feet.”

“Right,” Rocket says. “He _ had _ a surplus.” He stands beside Peter now, looking up at him once before turning back to face the sorcerer. “But that sonuvabitch is dead now and so _ obviously _ we’ve never been back. This makes no flarkin’ sense.”

“Ego is dead,” Mantis says suddenly, so resolute and desperate that it makes Peter’s heart skip a beat.

“Quill is half-Celestial. On one hand, he was able to channel his powers through Ego, one half of his heritage. On the other…”

_ “Earth,” _ Peter whispers. “I get them from Earth?”

“Yes,” Strange says. “You are able to channel your own power from the Earth—separate from Ego. I suspect your return here during the final battle was enough for you to accumulate that energy.”

His vision wavers slightly as the knowledge becomes available to him. He can’t keep the tremor out of his hands as he lifts them into his line of sight.

“How long does the light last for? How much do I store?” Peter says, looking down at his hands and wondering whether he’s drawing in more of that energy as they speak. He can almost feel a sort of humming beneath the surface they stand upon, so minuscule that it might as well be a figment of his imagination.

“That… I do not know,” he says. Strange’s interest is almost purely on the stones that are still being held by Nebula. His eyes flicker between the Guardians and the colorful entities, unsure as to which group is the one that needs to be monitored. It’s odd to think that the man perceives them to be about as big of a threat as the flarkin’ infinity stones. 

All this talk about Ego and his powers is only quickening the throbbing in his chest. He doesn’t like the idea of lethal energy tucked right beneath his flesh. He wouldn’t be in favor of that even if he was living _ alone, _ much less living in a steel enclosed trap flying near lightspeed with his entire family in tow. 

His family, who he might be forced to watch grow old and wither away right before his eyes. All while he goes on to live and live and live, and no matter how hard he tries to stop his heart from beating, he’ll only go on living.

He’ll live and live until he’s the only thing left.

Gamora must sense the change in his breathing, turning around to face him and his mounting affliction. He’s nearly paralyzed by the fear he’s internalized; it’s coming to rattle his senses and take his breath away, leaving the build-up of power beneath his skin to be the only true sensation he can hone in on. 

“Am I immortal?” he blurts out, suddenly unable to sit with the thought any longer.

“No,” Strange says easily. He can’t help but deflate at that. He’s never been more happy to hear that he’s going to die someday. “That connection died with Ego."

“So… this isn’t--” Peter stutters, the words feeling clunky and unwanted on his tongue. “It’s not Ego’s light at all? It’s just mine?” he asks.

Strange straightens the collar of his cloak and looks on at them with a dissecting gaze. “Well you’re still half-Celestial, but depending on how you want to look at it…” He pauses, searching for the right way to phrase it. “Ego was not able to harness the Earth’s energy. Your mother’s side-- your _ human _ side-- allows you to channel that light.”

It all makes sense. It would explain why Ego claimed he had to return to his planet, lest the light within him and his form withered away on Earth. It would explain why Peter watched Ego’s light leave his hands once the batteries exploded, leaving both Ego and his light to cave in with it. 

It would explain _ a lot— _him being a medium for power; it would explain how he was able to avoid instanetous death after holding the Power and Soul Stone. It would explain why he never released an assault of light on the Elector as an unstable and terrified child; he never stepped foot on Ego or Earth during that span of his life, there was simply no light to give.

The only other question is the question of where to turn next. For once in their lives, there is no next step. There’s no villain to fight. There’s not even a mission to fulfill.

“So that’s it?” Peter asks. “You take the stones and we just… go?” It’s hard to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

Because that _ can’t _ be it. After everything, the entire Thanos faceoff that he always knew was coming deep down; it’s over. He half expects one of the infinity stones to spontaneously combust within Rocket’s self-made container. He expects one of them to drop dead just for the hell of it. _ Hell, _ he wouldn’t be surprised if a goddamn missile came through the d’ast ceiling.

“Yes, I suggest that you leave as soon as possible. With no offense to your…team… it is best to limit the visiting time for otherworldly beings. At least for the foreseeable future,” Strange says stony-faced as he reaches over for the stones. It says a lot about Nebula’s bewilderment that she simply allows the sorcerer to remove them from her grasp.

With the stones in his hands, he nods once. “I do thank you for bringing them,” he allows quickly as he looks down at the container. “Feel free to see yourselves out,” he adds for good measure, disappearing through one of his portals—tasked with the effort of returning the gems.

The orange sparks flicker out, and soon all they have left to face is a tall and empty staircase.

Peter looks over at Gamora. It feels as if time freezes around him, making every moment feel like it is stuck in a never ending loop. His body feels drawn toward the floor, each movement lethargic and shocking to the senses. “It’s over?” he says, his voice blank. The other Guardians are completely silent behind them.

She nods, her eyes filling with tears. “No more fighting,” she whispers. “It is done. We can rest.”

He wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close, gently rubbing her arm as he leans his head into her inner neck. Despite the heaviness in his stomach, it flutters at the feeling of her body pressed against his. He feels Gamora sink into the warmth of his side, holding herself as close to him as the Universe will allow. In her grasp, it feels safe to breathe again. He can breathe without fearing that the floor will give way beneath him, that he’ll be sucked into yet another situation he can’t handle with her not by his side. Her embrace is a promise, one that they are both determined to keep this time.

“You can rest,” she whispers.

He inhales deeply, blinded by the scent of her as she reaches up to press him even closer towards her. His head hangs heavy on her shoulder, his arms still holding her with as much strength as he can muster.

He can feel as Gamora begins to lift her head, slowly finding the gaze of the rest of the team. He follows her example, lifting his head and reluctantly removing himself from her embrace. 

He backs up as Nebula steps out of the shadows. She reaches forward, grabbing one of Gamora’s hands. “Let's go home, sister,” she says. Her tone is flat, but her words quiver and break just enough to carry five years worth of grief beneath them.

Gamora sinks into herself slightly before throwing Nebula into the warmest hug he has ever seen them share. Gamora’s voice is small yet bright, still able to remain hopeful despite everything that has happened. “Home?” she questions, choking on a loose sob. “You’re staying with us?”

Nebula tightens her grip as she returns her embrace. “When we were children we used to discuss what life would be like after Thanos,” Nebula says, her voice careful and unwavering.

Gamora nods in recognition.

“I only ever pictured the two of us, sister. Out of all the futures I tried to imagine for myself,” she says, “I only saw us.”

Gamora lifts her head, nodding quickly as she wipes beneath her eyes. “Yes,” Gamora chokes out. “You belong here with us. With me.”

“Nebula’s been ‘ere with me for five years,” Rocket says. “She’s not getting rid of us that easily.”

Gamora inhales deeply. “I’m glad you had each other,” she says.

“She made good company,” Rocket says, the words only slightly muted, “but it’s gonna be real nice having the whole family back together.” The smile falls from his face in a matter of seconds. “I never thought—” he cuts himself short.

_ I never thought I’d see you again, _Peter knows Rocket means to say. He doesn't blame him; he felt the same for a long time. He still can't believe it.

“I missed you,” Rocket finishes, swallowing dryly. “We all did.”

Gamora must sense his meaning too, given the remorseful look on her face. “I am back now,” she says, sounding more certain than she ever has before. “I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers, and Peter gets the feeling that the last part is more for herself than for them. He can’t help but notice the way that she holds herself, her head held high, exhibiting a confidence that feels unbecoming given their current situation. He knows that she’s overcompensating for the vulnerability that she feels.

Maybe he wouldn’t mind heading back to The Garden and burning Thanos’ buried corpse after all.

“Yes, you are back,” Thor says, smiling nearly ear to ear as his gaze flickers around the room, lingering on Gamora before settling on Natasha. “Now I must leave you Guardians and make sure that she gets back to where she needs to be.” Natasha smiles too.

Peter isn’t exactly sure where that is, but he remembers something being said of a man named Clint Barton, as well as few other names Peter can't quite recall. Professor Banner was mentioned too, he knows, the only name he can put to a face.

“Make sure she’s safe,” Peter says as he nods over at them, mainly because he feels a sort of responsibility for Natasha now too. He won’t say it’s because her entrapment was his fault, he knows better now, but he at least played a significant enough role to feel accountable for both her and her survival.

“We all know Thor,” Natasha says, winking at them despite the horrors she’s just gone through. “It’ll be the other way around.”

Thor scoffs lightheartedly and shoves her shoulder. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. He sobers up a little as he begins to speak again. “I am glad to see your team whole again,” he addresses both Peter and Gamora directly.

“Both of you are a welcomed part of it,” Gamora says. “Visit whenever you’d like.”

Natasha smiles. “I may take you up on that sometime,” she says.

Nebula scoffs. “It’ll be nice to have _ three _ skilled warriors on our side, for once.” Peter, Rocket, and Drax try not to take offense to that, quietly glaring. Groot audibly protests. Mantis continues to stand there smiling, unbothered, almost as if she hadn’t heard anything at all.

Thor chuckles, tossing Stormbreaker once and catching it easily. “I hope to see you soon, Guardians,” he says. “I will summon the Bifrost to take you back to The Garden where Kraglin waits with the ship.”

Rocket steps up. “Don’t be a stranger, Hairbag,” he says. 

“See you soon, Rabbit.”

And with that, the Bifrost shoots through the ceiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please leave kudos, reviews, or drop in your favorite quotes! :)


	12. Every Inch of Your Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi again! new chapter coming at you with only 1-2 more left!
> 
> before we begin, potential trigger warning for descriptions of derealization & mental health in general. nothing too unusual for this fic, but tw just in case! take care of yourselves :)
> 
> with that said, please enjoy!!!

It’s silent when they find themselves back in The Garden.

There’s a large patch in the grass, a scorched part of the terrain that serves as an unwelcome reminder of the events that have just passed them by. The combined force of the stones and the light have left the soil an upturned mess of torn roots and brittle grass, and he can still sense energy rippling through the air like migrating static.

“Let’s get on the ship,” Rocket says suddenly. His voice is both urgent and cautious, too tense to conceal the anxiety running through every single one of them.

Gamora looks at Rocket, her eyes locking on the red bundle around his neck. “Yes. Let’s get off this planet,” she says. She scans the horizon until her eyes settle on the Quadrant, familiarity flooding into her expression. Relief shines like a shooting star across her face, and Peter can't turn away.

They are as quiet as the planet as they walk back to the ship. In the short minute it takes them to reach the gangway, Peter contemplates that silence as he tries to focus on the sensation of her fingers wrapping around his.

He also has to focus on walking in a straight line, evidently. He is used to the fogginess that runs in and out of his vision these days, but that doesn't mean the fatigue clouding his brain is something that has ever become easy to deal with. 

It is worse at this moment, he knows, but he also knows without a doubt that his needs have to take a backseat right now. Because she has just come back from the _ dead, _and he is about ninety-nine percent certain that she is exaggerating her well-being right now. Definitely for his sake.

And it would have been a good plan, as good as any of the others he has created, except he falls face first the second they reach the inside of the Quadrant.

He doesn’t even realize that he has keeled forward far enough to land flat on his face until Gamora is catching him, pulling him back up to verticalness again. She doesn’t release her grip once he is firmly planted on two feet. Instead, she takes one of his arms and wraps it around her shoulders, moving her right arm to wrap around his middle back.

_ “Woah,” _ Rocket says. “Quill--”

“I’m fine. I just tripped,” he says quickly.

“Sit,” Gamora commands suddenly, leaving no room for opposition. 

He obeys, allowing her to help him find a seat at one of the Quadrant’s tables. “I’m okay,” he repeats. “Maybe _ you _ should sit. I’m fine.”

“Shut up, Quill,” Nebula says sharply. He flashes her a glare that indicates the height of his confusion. She glares back, her face steely and reserved.

Gamora ignores both of their outbursts, her eyes searching for any visible signs of ailment.

“You have a stab wound,” she gasps out, cursing under her breath. She seems shocked that she has forgotten. “Where is it?”

They all stiffen at that, taken aback by her certainty. She was clear about the fact that she could see snippets of his life from the Soul World, but he is still unsure of what exactly she has gathered from those visions.

Mantis cocks her head, coming to the same realization herself.

Peter is perhaps the most taken aback. “How did you--”

“Let me see,” she says.

Despite his confusion, he obeys. He pulls up his shirt and shows her his freshly bandaged injury.

Her lower lip twitches ever so slightly as she looks at the pristine white bandage splayed across his side. She grimaces and reaches out, guiding the hand lifting his shirt back down to his lap. She must decide that he is going to live when she says, “Where else are you hurt?”

“Nowhere,” he answers.

Gamora sighs. “The last time you used the light--”

“I was used as a battery,” he says. “It was different.”

“--you had almost no energy left; you slept for _ days,_” she continues. “It’s not so different. You just reformed six _ infinity stones, _ Peter.”

“Listen to Gamora, Quill,” Rocket says. “This ain’t the kinda thing we should be gamblin’ with. We still have no idea what the flark those stones did to you _ or _ the after effects of draining yourself to fix ‘em.”

“Exactly,” Gamora says, thanking Rocket with kind eyes before turning back to face Peter. “This is uncharted territory for us. We need to play it safe.”

He can hardly get upset at the fact that Gamora and Rocket have now decided to form a tag-team against him; mainly because that’s something he never thought he’d be able to say. 

But he can’t let himself give up on this. Allowing Gamora to worry about him now—stressing over every single aspect of his health—would be a step in the wrong direction. She has never been one to let him fuss over her in the past, always maintaining a facade similar to the one he admittedly has now. The last thing he needs is for her to turn this whole thing over on him when they all know that _ she’s _ the one who needs their support here.

Admitting weakness right now would be a mistake.

“I’m fine,” he repeats, sitting up straighter and looking up to meet her gaze. She finds his eyes easily, quirking a silver etched brow as she continues to give him one of her searching glares.

They sit in that silence for a moment.

“It’s been a long day,” she says finally. “We should all get some rest”

“Okay,” he says easily. He can agree to that. She needs rest. That’s how he will help her, he decides.

“Take it easy. Both of you. At least ‘til we get to Xandar and can get the both of you checked out,” Rocket says.

“I’m fine, Rocket,” Peter says for about the billionth time.

“I’m not believin’ a single word that comes out of your mouth about your health until further notice. And before _ you _ say anything Gam, you just beat _ all odds. _ We aren't riskin’ a single thing.”

“I will get checked out, Rocket, thank you,” she says with surprisingly minimal opposition in her tone. “We both will.”

“Do you feel fine, Gamora?” Mantis asks quietly, observing her with wide eyes.

Gamora looks up and smiles softly. “Yes, Mantis. I’m not hurt,” she says.

“How is it that you have no physical ailments?” Drax asks suddenly, his tone uncertain and concerned. “That is not usually the case for those who experience falls from extre—”

“Drax!” Peter yelps, desperate to stop that discourse before it progresses any further. The ship goes silent at that, his voice echoing off the walls of the Quadrant as the rest of the Guardians go impossibly still. 

That is the last thing Gamora needs to hear right now. _ Yeah, _ that’s why he yelled, for Gamora’s sake. Definitely not because Drax’s words are making him sick to his stomach, nausea sweeping over him in one fell swoop.

He is definitely not shaking either. His hands always tremble like that.

Gamora only slightly flinches before she schools her expression into something more passive. She grants him a silent mercy by choosing not to comment on his outburst or the way his heart beats like a drum in his chest, barely dodging the burning embrace of panic as he focuses on steadying his breathing.

“I don’t really know,” she admits as calmly as she is able. “I think the stone had something to do with it, though I don’t know for certain.” She looks at Peter once more, surveying his expression before continuing. “I _ do know _ that I am uninjured. I no longer feel any pain.”

He thinks of the blood stains at the bottom of Vormir’s cliff and has to physically shake away the memory. The words _ no longer _ should strike him as a good thing, he thinks, except all it tells him is that there was a time where she _ did_. There was a time before her injuries seized her life, a time-- maybe a moment-- in which she was forced to endure the pain of death. Alone.

Without them.

Without _ him. _

“Are you certain?” Nebula asks. “Do not downplay anything, sister.”

“I’m certain,” Gamora says. “I’m a little tired, but that is the worst of it,” she admits.

“I am Groot,” he says as if it’s the easiest, most obvious solution in the world. _ Sleep. _

Gamora crouches down, though Groot is tall enough now that it’s not really necessary. The kid looks down at her kneeled form, his eyes glossy and wet.

“I will,” she says easily, “and you should too.” She strokes the side of his face, just as she would do when he was still a sapling. “I will see you first thing when you wake up.”

Groot nods, unable to keep a single bead of sap from escaping one of his eyes. He visibly stiffens, and it is clear that he is trying not to break down when Gamora wipes the tear away.

“I am Groot.” _ See you in the morning. _

She strokes his face one last time before rising back to her feet. She plants a warm smile on her face, half-fabricated and half-genuine, and nods once. “See you all in the morning,” she says resolutely. 

“Sure thing,” Rocket says. Peter doesn’t miss how choked up he sounds. “I’ll get this piece of junk headed towards Xandar in the meantime.” He sucks in a breath. “Let’s go, morons. These two lovebirds need their beauty sleep.”

Drax’s face pinches up in confusion, though Peter’s sure they have used those two expressions at least a hundred times in the past.

“See you in the morning,” Mantis says, wrapping Gamora in one last hug for good measure. Gamora accepts it graciously, not even minding the skin on skin contact. Mantis lets go after a moment, turning to face Peter from where he is still sitting.

She reaches out for his hand and he lets her, watching her every move as her antenna light up once more. There is no more fear on her face as she smiles sheepishly, inhaling and exhaling in relief. “I thought I was feeling Ego,” she admits, somewhat regretfully, “but it is much too warm to ever be his.”

“It is yours. And your mother’s,” Mantis says with some note of finality. “Warm,” she says again. “Like Terra.”

Peter nods quickly, his eyes brimming with tears. The pure love that he holds for his family is enough to shove down the deepest darkest parts of himself down for a moment. He has never felt happier than he does right now, which is ironic, given how shitty he feels at the same exact time. “Thank you, Mantis,” he says, choking on the words. “Love you, _ sis.” _ He manages a laugh, which lights up her antenna with a fiercer glow than before.

Gamora looks close to tears herself before Drax engulfs her in a much larger embrace, catching even her assassin-like vigilance off guard for a moment. She flinches concerningly before she allows her frame to relax, sinking into the embrace once her safety is apparent to her fear-driven brain. 

“Relax, my friend,” Drax says, having noticed her reaction. “You are safe here. He cannot hurt another soul ever again.”

Gamora swallows. “Thank you,” she says, stepping back once Drax’s arms fall back to his sides. “I hope you can rest assured too, now that your family is truly avenged.” She looks up at him sympathetically, knowing how long he has dreamed of aiding her in the fight against Thanos.

“Yes,” he agrees. “I can also rest knowing that you are not yet another family member lost.”

She gives him a terse nod, visibly holding back the extent of her emotions. She attempts another smile, briefly, before it falls back into a sort of blankness that indicates she doesn’t know what to do with his words.

Nebula steps in mercifully. “Move. _ Everyone. _ The conversations can wait until the morning,” she says.

Gamora mouths a quick thank you before announcing a final goodnight. Peter quickly does the same, watching as the team exits their sight, each dispersing towards their respective quarters. Rocket, Nebula, and Groot head towards the cockpit, likely planning on discussing more than just the plan for their flight path.

When it is just the two of them, Peter clears his throat.

“You sure you don't want them to stay?” he says, suddenly feeling selfish for keeping her from them. In truth, he wants nothing more than to sit with her in solitude for a little, though intense guilt still twists in his stomach.

His body is full of so much of it that he cannot even be sure if that is the sole cause of his guilt. It flows freely in every direction, and he can't tell where it begins and where it ends.

“They will be here,” she says, her voice soft and patient. “They do not need me right now.”

“Of course they need you,” he says, aghast that she would even think such a thing. Does she even realize how lost they were without her?

“Not right now they don't,” she clarifies. “They will be fine. I’m worried about you right now.”

“You don't need to worry,” Peter says, sighing softly. He has never been able to control her worry in the past, he knows, but she’s never been able to do the same for him either. It is nearly impossible to remain impassive when it comes to the two of them.

He flinches at the sound and jolt that reverberates through the floor of the Quadrant as it takes off. She levels her gaze on him, as if to refute his last claim outright.

“I could say the same for you,” she says with a deep exhale. “But we both know that is easier said than done. It would be easier to just let ourselves be taken care of, as we’ve always done for each other.”

Peter swallows the lump stuck in his throat, pushing down the sobs he knows are just below the surface. He can see it in her too, pure emotion causing each inhale and exhale to be shakier than the last. Truth is, he has no idea what to do next. He has no idea how to help her, and he has proven that he doesn’t know how to help himself either. He will always take care of her, that is the one thing he is sure of, but this is one of those rare moments where even he has no plan; no course of action remaining.

And he is supposed to be the most emotionally aware between the two of them. He is supposed to be the tactful one, the one who understands exactly what to do to make her feel better.

“Besides,” she continues despite the chaos in his head, “You need to rest. Today was emotionally and physically taxing.” She holds up a single finger just as he opens his mouth to respond. “Before you say anything, I will rest with you, so there is no point arguing who needs it more.”

Peter nods. “You’re right,” he whispers, his voice soft and tired. “We take care of each other.” He watches as her eyes soften, sympathy and support swirling in her irises. The lump reforms in his throat, and he has to mentally send himself back to a time where her presence wasn’t enough to send all of his senses into complete psychological shock.

It’s easier to pretend like it’s just another night, like the past five years and two months was all just some horrible dream.

But, try as he might, he knows there is no way either one of them will be able to suppress the traumatic events that still plague their minds.

Gamora nods simply, offering him her hand from his position in the chair. He grabs it, knowing that arguing whether or not he needs her help would only prolong the subject.

He can only hope that she misses his slight stumble upon standing. She makes no move to support his weight as they move further into the Quadrant, though he is not stupid enough to assume that she hasn’t noticed how the day-- _ hell, _ the last few months-- has affected him. 

When they reach their door, he looks upon it. It might as well be a portal to another world, back to a reality untouched and unharmed. He has walked through it an uncountable amount of times, and he feels an indescribable longing for the normalcy he once felt.

Gamora reaches up from behind him, placing her handprint on the Quadrant’s touch sensor. She watches him carefully as the door slides open.

Their room looks mostly untouched.

“We boarded the Quadrant a day cycle ago,” he says. “Only the stuff we left here before--_ uh, _ before we left on the Benatar is here.”

“I should have enough of my things here,” she says. He can tell she is unsure, given that before yesterday, neither one of them had occupied the ship in five years. “Unless _ you _ need something from the Benatar. We can head over together.”

He shakes his head. He’s just glad that Rocket, Nebula, and Kraglin never bothered to move their things. That would force them to reflect on the passage of time, a subject that neither one of them is prepared to dive into right now. “No. It’s alright,” he says. 

Their quarters on the Benatar have always felt a little more _ theirs _ than the one they are in now, seeing as they purchased and designed the Benatar as their own, together. He doesn’t want to risk the emotions or memories that might slip out if they were to enter it tonight. Especially given the nature of their last interaction on the Benatar.

“Okay,” she says easily.

He nods and clears his throat, moving to open one of the drawers by their bedside. He shrugs his jacket off and clumsily pulls his shirt over his head, causing his hair to reflect the state of disarray that he feels inside. The air around him suddenly feels jarring, and he can feel her eyes on him even though his back is turned.

“Wait,” she says, swallowing. “Shower first. Then bed.”

He turns around. “Oh. _ Yeah, _ okay,” he agrees. It suddenly occurs to him that he would have attempted to make a joke following that statement in the past. “I’m that much of a mess, huh?” he tries to joke. It falls flat the second the words come out of his mouth.

It would've been funny before, he realizes. It would have been funny back when him being a mess meant that he still had debris in his hair from their last mission. It would have been funny if his hands were covered in dirt from helping change the soil in Groot’s pot back when he was still just a sapling. It would have been funny if he spent a little too much time out in the rain while they were planetside. 

It’s not so funny when him being a mess means that he has dark circles under his eyes that are so dark they rival even Rocket’s. It’s not so funny when his skin is sickly pale because he’s lacking some vitamin that he doesn't know the name of. It’s not so funny when there are splotches of blood on his skin that he failed to remove in his haste; the blood of a man that he’s just _ killed _ hours ago.

Gamora shakes her head. “You’ll feel better after,” she says, coming to stand in front of him. She places a strong hand at the center of his chest as she looks up at him.

He nods, willing himself not to cry. “Okay.”

He follows her into their quarters’ bathroom, trying to ignore his reflection in the mirror as they walk by. He is unable to prevent himself from seeing just how _ sick _ he looks.

No wonder she is so worried about him.

When they reach the shower, she instantly begins to help him strip. He almost stops her, about to insist that he can do it himself, before her hand comes to rest around the hilt of the Godslayer.

He holds his breath.

She unsheathes it slowly, keeping it collapsed as she places it on the counter. 

Gamora makes no further reference to the sword beyond that, moving on to begin stripping herself of her own garments. She moves quickly, almost clinically, as if she is racing against some unseen force that will snatch the both of them up if they don't get into the shower right away.

He watches her carefully as he begins removing his pants. He is afraid of what will happen when she finally breaks down and lets him in.

“Get in,” she says. She is still being patient with him, but she sounds more assertive now that she can clearly see the lack of respect he’s had for his physical well-being in her absence. He can't help but feel like he’s being observed under a microscope, though he is instantly filled with guilt for feeling that way around her, knowing that she would _ never _ judge him.

He listens, of course, stepping under the warm stream as he turns it on.

She steps in after him, closing her eyes under the warm flow of water as it pours out of the ceiling. He can’t help but watch her as she allows the water to cleanse her face, the liquid flowing down her body in every direction. He almost cries at the sight of her alive and whole in their shower, enjoying something as simple as the feeling of running water against her skin.

“Peter?” she questions, cracking one of her eyes open when she senses the lack of movement on his end. He shakes himself from his daze, reaching over to grab the soap.

“Mhm?” he hums. He begins washing off the layer of dirt caking his skin, lathering the filth off until the water is clear. He tries not to watch as black blood swirls in the drain beneath his feet.

She grabs onto his wrists to still him. He looks down at their hands, only then noticing how hard he has scrubbed at his skin, visible red lines trailing up and down his arms. His hands are trembling now too, and his right hand has only darkened from his earlier assault against the walls of the Milano. Her eyes are wide as she assesses him.

Just when he thinks she will comment on _ whatever the fuck _ is going on with him right now, she releases her grip. “Hand me the shampoo,” she requests instead.

He listens, reaching over to grab the bottle. She grabs it from him gently and squeezes out a handful. “Turn around,” she says suddenly.

He sighs, realizing what is happening here but also knowing there is little he can do to resist. He has already agreed to let her take care of him, though he can’t say that he’s happy that he is not the one tending to her right now. There will be time for that later, when his hands stop trembling and his heart stops beating a thousand beats per minute. Preferably as soon as possible.

He turns and feels as her hands begin to work the soap into his hair. She starts at his scalp, lathering the gel as her hands tangle up in his hair.

“We should cut this,” she says as she experimentally twirls one of his long curls around her index finger. The domestic nature of the moment is not lost on him, and it only creates another lump in his throat. He bites his tongue lightly, his eyes glaring daggers at the shower wall as he tries to keep his emotions in check.

“Okay,” he gulps out. He can tell when she begins to wash the shampoo out of his hair, the suds trailing down his back. 

He can’t help but watch as the bubbles stick to the floor beneath their feet before swirling down the drain. A heavy wave of nausea sweeps over him, settling finally in the depths of his stomach.

He imagines her drifting away the same way that his blaster had on Knowhere.

She turns him around slowly, lifting his face to greet hers with a single palm. Running that same hand across his cheek, she gives him a small and sad smile, acknowledging the pain he knows they both feel inside. “And then we’ll shave this,” she says as she traces his overgrown stubble. 

His breath hitches as he nods. She is trying to distract him from his thoughts. She has always been good at that. 

“Not tonight, though.” She reaches for the conditioner. “We have time,” she says with unwavering certainty. 

“We have time,” he repeats, assuring her as well. He is not entirely sure that she believes that herself, if the way that she is watching him is any indication. She moves as if this moment will be her last, reveling in every inch of contact she is able to maintain. 

An overly tactile Gamora typically means one thing.

_ She’s afraid. _

He knows better than to call her out on it. 

She asks him to turn around once more and he does, closing his eyes as she works the conditioner into his hair. He keeps his eyes closed until she begins to rinse it out.

He turns back around to face her.

“Your turn,” he says.

She purses her lips, looking as if she is going to protest. She turns around instead, silently allowing him to return the favor. 

The corners of his lips lift into a shy smile as he pours a generous amount of shampoo into his right hand. The gel is cool against his skin, preferable to the dull heat that had been accompanied by the Soul Stone.

It takes him a little longer to work through her tresses, but they are long accustomed to this routine. They remain mostly quiet as he washes out the shampoo and goes back in with conditioner, starting at her ends before working up to the middle of her hair, avoiding the hair at her scalp. 

The last of the soapy water swirls down the drain as he washes out the conditioner. Soon they are standing under the spray, her back facing him and his idle hands slowly moving down to his sides.

It was easy to fall back into the routine of it all, and he is barely coming out of his hazy state when she speaks over the comforting silence. “All done?” she asks, turning around to face him.

He nods and she returns it a moment later, reaching over to turn off the water. She doesn’t move to get out right away. Instead, her hand comes up to his chest, trailing downwards until her fingertips trace the outer edges of the waterproof bandage sticking to his side.

Gamora’s brow knits in concern as she traces the reddened skin along the edges, still slightly inflamed from prior infection. 

He watches her as she continues to stroke the skin around his injury, her eyes concerned and the slightest bit wet. “How did you know about this, Mora?” he asks her again, hoping for a real response now that they are alone.

She shakes her head slightly, looking up at his eyes. “I already told you. I could see you in the Soul World.”

He nods slowly, his brow knitted. That’s fair; she did say that. But he can’t shake the feeling that she is hiding behind a barrier of some kind, designed to keep her emotions at bay. He doesn’t mean to chip at the protective walls that she has built, but he has to know. _ “Yeah _ , but you never mentioned the time I got-- _ this,_” he says as he gestures vaguely at the wound.

Gamora bites at her lower lip slightly, her eyes growing distressed as she lowers her hand back down to her side. “The last time I was aware began when you appeared in the Soul World,” she says, “the very first time you were conscious in that realm. When you thought it was just a dream.”

Peter remains quiet, sensing that it would not be wise for him to reply to that, knowing that she is not yet finished.

“I told you,” she emphasizes again, “I could see you. I saw you with Nebula. Flashes. Like I was watching a hologram.” She takes in a deep breath, and Peter can see the very first traces of anger lining her features, though she is unsurprisingly trying to hold those emotions back. “Every time that you nearly got yourself _ killed,” _ she continues. “Though I don't doubt there were more times. Times the Soul Stone _ didn't _show me.”

He has enough sense not to flinch at her tone of voice, even considering the darkness and bitterness tracing each of her words, subsequently setting him on edge.

Peter swallows. “Mora--”

Gamora takes in another deep breath. “I’m not angry with _ you, _ Peter,” she clarifies, and he barely suppresses an elongated sigh at her admission. “I’m sorry, I just--” She stops herself before continuing, exhaling shakily as she ponders her next words.

She looks down, clearly lost in thought. She looks up slowly as she watches his expression. “Did you-- did you _ fight _ Thanos, Peter?” she asks, her hands jittering at her sides.

Peter freezes, his eyes widening. “W-what?” he stutters.

“You mentioned something to Strange earlier,” she says. “You said… _ on Titan._”

He suddenly can’t stand facing her like this, completely vulnerable and exposed in their shower. She could pick him apart completely here if she wanted, his emotions flayed and showcased for all to see.

He stills again, his mouth opening and closing as he cycles through any possible responses. He chooses another option, perhaps a much more flawed one, and gently squeezes past her and out of the shower.

“Peter,” she says with some measure of disbelief. He makes no move to leave the bathroom, standing directly outside of the shower as he begins to dry himself off. Gamora does so too, reluctantly, reaching for her own towel as she moves to stand beside him.

She chooses to draw her own conclusions from his silence, continuing the conversation anyway. “Did he hurt you?” she asks. Her anger—which he now knows to be directed at Thanos—has dissipated slightly, though it still rests at the tip of her tongue, slicing into each syllable.

“No,” Peter says, ignoring the voice inside him that insists that it is a lie. He remembers the disorientating sensation of turning to dust and gulps back the nausea brewing in his stomach. “I was there one second,” he says, “and then the next I was coming apart.” He is less gentle with his towel than he should be as he dries the droplets of water on his skin. “Didn’t hurt.”

Gamora stills his hands again and he sighs, wrapping the towel around his waist instead. “Peter--” she starts again, giving him a look that signifies that she doesn’t quite believe him. It is the same look she gave him earlier, when he insisted that he was fine. “When he saw you… he didn’t target you? Attack you? Anything?”

“He didn’t have to!” Peter’s voice breaks. His words are less of a shout and more a result of the sheer emotion seeping through every word until all he can hope to do is raise his voice alongside his mounting affliction. “He didn’t have to torture me or attack me or any of that because when he said that you were _ dead _ and that he _ had _ to kill you, I-” Peter suddenly can’t hold it back anymore, tears streaming down his cheeks. “He already won. When I knew you were gone…he already had me. He already hurt or was going to hurt everyone that I love. It didn’t _ matter _ what he did to me at that point."

“Of course it mattered!” Gamora says, her voice rising with the same intensity of emotion that his had. “You matter! Why can’t you see that? You don’t deserve _ pain, _ Peter.”

“Neither do you!” he says, his voice trembling. “What about _ you? _You died!”

She is sobbing now, her entire form shaking like a leaf. Peter pushes his own rising sobs back down into his chest and pulls her into his embrace. 

Gamora’s tears fall onto his shoulder as she grips him from around his upper back, using as much strength as she is willing to hold him with. “I’m _ so _ sorry Peter. I- I never wanted him to hurt you. From the very first time we met, I was always desperate to keep all of you away from him. Out of his reach,” she says, choking on a sob. “I’m sorry, Peter, I’m _ sorry--” _

“No,” Peter says as he shakes his head rapidly, guiding her head onto his shoulder as they embrace. “No, Gamora, you have _ nothing _ to be sorry for.” Hot tears continue to cascade down his face, intermingling as they collect at the base of his throat. “Nothing at all.”

She digs her forehead into his shoulder and holds on tight, her skin pressed against the freshly dried dampness of his. “I just wanted to keep him away from you. I was so desperate to make this fight my own. I never should have asked you to--” 

Peter tenses under her grasp, clenching his eyes shut in the hopes that the action will prevent any memories from resurfacing. He bites down on his inner lip and wills his heart to stop racing.

“I did so many things wrong,” Gamora says through another barely contained sob.

He doesn’t blame her for any of it, but he knows that won’t be enough to ease her guilt. “So did I,” Peter says instead, trying to shove down the tightness in his voice.

She shakes her head and unwraps her arms in order to step back and look at him. “You did what I asked of you,” she says. “That is not on you.”

He chooses not to mention the fact that him doing what she asked of him is precisely one of the many things he’s done wrong. He hates himself for trying just as much as he hates himself for failing.

“I could have done more,” he says, gulping as he pushes his train of thought in another direction. “And I did things. Things I’m not proud of,” Peter continues, his vocal cords shaking, “After you…were _ gone.” _

Her eyes flicker back over towards the collapsed sword on the counter. They widen slightly before flashing back towards his.

She shakes her head, reaching up to caress the side of his face once more. Her mouth opens once, emerald lips parting before shutting into a thin line. She rolls her lips against each other before allowing them to part again. Gamora remains silent as she pulls his face down to hers, their noses brushing faintly against each other. He can taste both of their tears when their lips meet.

When they separate, Peter’s hand lingers on her hip, the feel of soft cotton on his fingertips. Neither one of them speaks first, simply existing in the comforting silence they have created.

He likes it better that way, at least for now. He really would rather not continue to rip off this particular bandage tonight, their wounds far too fresh to meet the frigid sting of present day.

Gamora does eventually break the silence. “Bed,” she says simply. 

Peter nods, accepting the hand she offers and allowing her to pull him towards the large bed awaiting them. The bed is perfectly made on her usual side, the sheets still tucked and untouched. His side is slightly more unruly, a result of his quick and haphazard stay last night after consoling Groot. His futile attempt at sleep was as restless as it comes these days. He has become well acquainted with the way ceilings look in the dark.

They stop in front of their dresser. Gamora reaches into one of his drawers, pulling out two shirts. He takes the one she hands to him and throws it on over his head, moving to grab a pair of boxers as she moves to her own drawer to grab her own pair.

She decides on wearing one of his grey shirts, the fabric fitting her like a dress as it falls to the midway point of her thigh. She wraps her arms around him again as she whispers, “I would have reacted the same.”

He says nothing, deciding not to vocally agree or disagree with that. In reality, she would have done anything other than what he has done; he’s sure of it. She would have been a leader, a friend, a teammate, a mother. She would have held her head above the waves and not have let them pull her under. She would have grieved gracefully, and without self-pity or suicidal tendencies.

_ Right? _

Gamora takes pity on him, thankfully not forcing a response out of him tonight. She crawls into bed first, patting the spot to her right. He sinks into bed after her.

Their limbs tangle immediately as they slide under the covers. He wants to be as close to her as possible. She demonstrates the same need for physical comfort, resting her head on his chest as her eyes flutter shut with contentment. His eyes beg for the same rest, but he can’t bring himself to look away as he watches her through his lower lashes.

He eventually moves his hand from its position against her middle back and turns off the lights in their quarters. The soft glow of stars peer through the window, keeping his pupils safe from the darkness.

* * *

An indiscernible amount of time passes as he stares out into the galaxy, his eyes falling on Gamora’s form more often than not. He can tell that she is still awake, judging by the pace of her breathing. He knows that she knows, with even more certainty, that he is awake too. She has always been good at that kind of stuff, her enhanced hearing picking up on the faintest changes in his pulse and breathing.

Anyway, if he had to guess, he’d say that over an hour passes before she speaks again.

“Rest, Peter,” Gamora says in the darkness, her voice brighter than the constellations outside their window.

“I can’t,” he says.

She presses her head further into his chest. “You need sleep.”

He chuckles a mirthless laugh. “I’ve made it this far without it.”

“That’s what frightens me,” she replies. “You look so tired.”

He shakes his head, sliding his hand higher up her back. “Not anymore. Not with you here.”

“If you’re worried about nightmares—”

“Please.” He sighs, burying his face in the hair at the crown of her head.

“—I will be here. To help you through anything.”

“And when you aren't? When I wake up and you aren't here?” Peter says, his walls crumbling down again as his rough whisper cuts through the air. “What then?”

“Peter,” she says as she sits up and stares down at him in the darkness. She taps the button that activates their quarters’ lights, bathing them in an uncomfortably warm-toned glow. He has never minded the subtle orange glow before, but now he is compelled to ask Rocket to build them some new ones. 

He almost regrets saying anything, irrationally angry at himself for voicing one of his darkest fears when they should be resting, but he can’t keep the words back anymore. He needs to hear it from her, needs her to _ say it, _ needs more than anything to feel like he’s actually inside his body and not drifting aimlessly on a barren planet. He needs to know that they’re both _ here _ and not trapped within the Soul World, experiencing some sick illusion that only the Soul Stone knows how to compose. He needs to feel like the past few months haven’t been one giant fever dream, that Thanos is actually gone, that they are actually _ safe. _

_ Even worse, that they’re not still on Ego. Or, him, still on Ego, eyes still blazen blue with swirling galaxies and shooting stars. That the last four years haven’t been some manufactured deception meant to keep him incapacitated and obedient. That the light swirling in his veins is not the same light acting as the battery, the catalyst, meant to destroy them all. That his friends aren’t all dead. That the Universe isn’t all Ego. _

“Do you still feel like this isn’t real? You know this is real, right?” she asks. She cups his face, running her hand up through his hair.

“I do. But... I don't know,” he says. “I don't know. I’m so _ fucked up, I-- _I don’t—”

He pushes himself up swiftly, his body feebly protesting the sudden movement.

“Look at me, Peter,” she says, audibly trying to keep the emotion out of her voice.

He looks at her, his eyes wide and unseeing.

“I am real. I am not going anywhere. I was dead, but now I am alive again. Because of you. Because _ you _ saved me,” she says.

“Because of this?” Peter says. He allows a flicker of light to illuminate his fingertips before extinguishing it. It only sends him spiraling more, and he regrets the action immediately. “Because of-- _ of that?! _ Because I’m a monster-- a… _ a Celestial?_” he says. “No, I can’t… I-- I failed you. We know that. I was supposed to kill you. That’s what you asked.”

_ “Please,” _ Gamora begs, looking more concerned than he has ever seen her. “Breathe. Sweetheart. Breathe with me.”

“What- What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing. Peter, _ nothing _is wrong with you.”

“I don't recognize myself anymore,” he says at a whisper. “When you were gone, I-- I wasn't good. I was awful, and not just to the assholes who deserved it but…”

He gasps out, searching for air. “To our family. I let them down Gamora. I let _ you _ down.”

“It’s alright, baby,” she says, sounding almost desperate.

“It’s not. None of this is alright,” he cries out.

“I know,” she says. “I know it’s not.”

“I don’t know what to do next,” he admits. “I don’t know how to help you or myself. I can't help Rocket, Drax, Mantis, Nebula.” He chokes on a sob. _ “Groot,” _ he breaks around the word. “I think I really messed him up Mora. We practically _ raised him _ and I think I really fucked up this time.”

She grabs his hand as a sign of support as she watches him carefully, listening to every word. He can see that she is crying too, beads of tears rolling down her soft skin.

“Mantis is scared… like all the time. She sensed the light in me yesterday and neither one of us knew what she was feeling, just that I was _ different _somehow,” he says. “Drax is always quiet. I don’t remember the last time I even heard him make a joke.”

His breath hitches, hot tears pooling in his eyes. He can feel the heat radiating off of his cheeks, the room becoming twice as hot as it was mere minutes ago.

“Rocket,” he continues, “He had to live five years without all of us, _ and _ I-- I still don't know what to make of that… how to _ help—” _

“Peter,” Gamora interrupts hastily, “Slow down, _ please. _Let’s just… talk this out, okay?” She squeezes his hand tighter.

He shakes his head, the tears coming quicker now. 

“Your sister,” Peter continues twice as fast, the hand not holding Gamora’s clenching desperately around their linens. “You know she doesn’t trust easily. And just when I might’ve finally gotten it… I threw it right back in her face. I left like it meant nothing. I-- I think she was _ really _ trying, Mora. Really trying to help me… and I-- I didn’t show _ one _ ounce of gratitude for it. I just—”

_ “Peter,” _ she says firmer this time, though her voice is still laced with concern—thick and heavy against her tongue. She finds his other hand, still twisted in the sheets, and clasps it tightly. “This is too much for one person to carry. We will figure it all out together. As a team. You aren’t alone anymore.”

“I was never alone.” He shakes his head again, a wet laugh escaping as he looks down at their sheets. “_God, _ all I could feel when you were gone was just this… soul-crushing loneliness, Mora, I-- But I was _ never _ alone. They were here for me throughout it all, even while they were grieving too, but it… I wasn’t--”

She squeezes his hand to get him to focus, and he pauses at the intensity of her eyes boring into his. “That’s just what I _ mean, _ Peter. You’re not a lone Ravager anymore,” she says, reminding him of a fact she has occasionally brought up over the years. “You have us. You always have. And they’re your family… so they understand that you were… _ are _ grieving. It isn’t up to you to fix everything and everyone, Peter. We’re all together now. So why don’t we just take this time to breathe… and _ recover._” She lets go of his hand and rests her right palm against the side of his cheek, running her thumb across his skin as he leans into her touch. “The rest will come later. And if you still believe that you need to make amends.. or somehow make up for something, well, then that can come later too.”

He closes his eyes and revels in her touch, sighing softly as he allows his heart rate to come back down. She’s right. She’s always right.

There are definitely things he needs to make up for, in more ways than one, but it is wrong for him to think so little of his family by assuming that they would be anything less than accepting. He has hurt them with his grief, and he plans on doing whatever he can to amend that hurt, but most of them have already expressed their forgiveness towards his misgivings.

Most of them.

“You’re right,” he whispers, opening his eyes and placing a soft kiss against her hand. 

Gamora smiles softly, nodding and grabbing his hands once more. “I know,” she says, continuing to give him a small and sheepish smile.

“You’re really here,” he says after a moment, squeezing her hands as he looks into her brown eyes.

“I am.”

His brow furrows. “And you’re okay?”

“Yes,” she says. Her voice is tight and clipped.

“It’s okay if you aren't,” he says. “You have been through so much, Mora. I _ know _ you. You can talk to me.”

She pauses, worrying on her lip in a way that is wholly unlike her to do. She fidgets with their hands, and if Peter didn’t know any better he would say that it’s a nervous tic. Only he didn't know she had those. She never _ did. _

“When we were both in the Soul World, I was… _ different. _ I was the same, but I also knew more than I do now,” she explains, staring down at their hands. “It was like the stone was a part of me.”

Peter nods. “I had that same feeling before reforming it,” he says.

She nods back. “I could see things also. You know that,” she says. “I could see outside the realm, like when I saw you on Vormir. But I could see things inside the Soul World too.”

He tilts his head, waiting for her explanation. Her grip becomes tighter around his hands, her breath catching at the back of her throat. He watches as she gasps around the small breath, a hitch in her composure that reminds him so painfully of their last talk on the Benatar. _ ‘Swear to me. Swear to me on your mother,’ _he hears in his head, punctuated by a shudder and a gasp that tells him her next words are going to leave a lasting impression on him.

“It’s like I could feel every inch of your soul there. Almost like it was mine,” she says.

He sucks in a breath. “It is. God, ‘Mora, it is. It’s all yours.”

“You were in so much pain,” she says, a sob catching in her throat. “I think you still are.”

He can’t think of a meaningful response to that, knowing that denying a truth she already knows would be nothing but hurtful, and he’s really in no position to argue anyway. He can’t hide from her, and his emotions are distressingly transparent.

Thankfully he doesn’t have to. “So am I,” she admits. “I _ think. _ I don't know.”

He’d figured as much. There is clearly so much pain that she is trying to hide from. He’s still afraid that it will sneak up on her, overwhelming her completely if she waits too long to feel the anguish inside. “What do you mean?” he asks, hoping that talking about it will help ease some of that confusion.

“Just that I haven’t…” she pauses, thinking. “I can’t think about what happened or-- Or I don’t know what will happen. I’m afraid that if I let myself… feel… it’ll never stop. That the pain won't go away and it’ll just be… _ endless.” _ She swallows and blinks, clearing away the emotion rising up in her eyes. “I don't want to think about it or talk about it. I just want the memories to be gone, but they _ won’t _ and they’re just going to keep living on in my nightmares and _ yours, _and—”

“Mora,” he interrupts, trying to keep her from spiraling. Normally, he wouldn’t interrupt; he would actually _ encourage _ her to let out everything that she has internalized. But now, knowing that the emotions she is voicing come from a place of anxiety and hopelessness, he knows he needs to intervene. 

He lets go of one of her hands, sliding his right hand onto her waist. They sit facing each other, the orange glow above them accentuating the hollowness beneath their eyes. She waits for him to continue his thought, completely unphased that he has interrupted her. She was probably hoping that he would, afraid of her own words.

_ “Hey, _ Mora,” he says again, softly, squeezing her hand tighter as he finds her gaze. “What we just went through happened to me two months ago. Five years for Rocket and Nebula. For you, minus the short time you were aware in the Soul World, it practically just happened.” Peter clears his throat. “You were right when you said that we have time. We can do whatever you want. If you don't want to talk or think about it, I can provide a distraction. I’m not too bad at those.”

She huffs out a soft laugh and sinks into him, resting her head on his chest. He wraps his arms around her, holding her close as he cards his hands through her hair. “Everything you’re feeling right now is completely normal. You’ve-- _ we’ve _ just been through something traumatic. That doesn't mean you won't bounce back. You’re the strongest person I know, Mora, and I’ll be here for you. We all will. Always,” he says.

“I love you,” she says against his chest. “And me for you, too.”

He runs his hands up and down her back, and she shudders under his touch. “I love you _ so _ much,” he says. After a few long moments of silence he speaks again. “Thank you for coming back to me,” he whispers, his nose pressed back into her hair.

She sits up and finds his eyes easily. “Thank you for bringing me back,” she whispers, reaching out to stroke away a tear he hadn’t even noticed had fallen. She waits a moment and then, “Are you okay?”

“I will be,” he answers. “And so will you.”

She nods, blinking back tears again. “And physically?” She quirks a questioning brow at him.

He’s in no mood to lie to her, especially not when she has been nothing but vulnerable and honest with him. “A little sore,” he admits. “Mostly just tired. You?”

“About the same,” she says. 

He lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “Still won’t be able to sleep, though.”

She offers him a sad smile and guides him to lay down with a single palm against his chest. He brings her closer to him when she lays down beside him, shutting off the lights on the way back down.

Gamora turns over to face him, and he catches her eyes scanning his face in the pale starlight. She leans forward and kisses him on the lips, softly, brushing their noses together as they part.

“I’ll make us coffee in the morning,” she replies, finding a place to rest her head against him.

He cries silently in the darkness and holds her tighter than he ever has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay! so many feelings and still so much more needing to be said :)
> 
> i've decided that i want to make a couple one-shots or perhaps even a two or three shot following the end of this series. it's been fun, and it has been a real long ride, let me just say. worry not, there is still an estimated 1-2 chapters left in this fic! coming to you shortly!
> 
> i hope you all enjoyed! as always, please leave kudos, reviews, or drop in your favorite quotes!


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